

I 




COPYRIGHT DEPOSED 






























THE MAN WHO VANISHED 


A Novel 


BY 

JOHN TALBOT SMITH / 

AUTHOR OF 

“The Black Cardinal,” etc. 


NEW YORK 


BLASE BENZIGER & CO., Inc. 


t- 


1922 

dV' 







Copyright, 1902, 1922, by John Talbot Smith / 



© C!. A 6 5 9 5 1 6 ^ 


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MAR 25 *22 


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FOREWORD. 


This book was first published in 1902 under the title of 
“ The Art of Disappearing.” So many people took it 
for a treatise on an art that a change of title became nec- 
essary. It is now a story of “ The Man Who Vanished,” 
that is, a man whose personality so changed under a series 
of misfortunes that he disappeared not only from the ken 
of his acquaintances but from himself. The period covered 
by the story was well known to the readers of 1900, but 
that cannot be said of the present public. How few are 
they who recall Mayor Grace, and Mayor Hewitt, and 
John Morrissey, and Honest John Kelly, and the political 
and religious currents running between 1870 and 1885 in 
New York life. Still fewer recall how neatly Mayor Grace 
persuaded President Cleveland not to name the distin- 
guished Vermont lawyer, Edward Phelps, Chief Justice of 
Supreme Court; in consequence of which persuasion 
Edward Phelps retired from his position as Minister to 
London to become a professor of law at Yale. The leading 
characters of “The Man Who Vanished” were all sug- 
gested by the leading public men of that period, and the 
keen questions which disturbed them are the foundations 
of the tale. 


iii 





CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Holy Oils 1 

II. The Night at the Tavern 7 

III. The Abysses of Pain 16 

IV. The Road to Nothingness 25 

V. The Door is Closed 33 

VI. Another Man’s Shoes 40 

VII. The Dillon Clan 55 

VIII. The Wearin’ o’ the Green 68 

IX. The Villa at Coney Island 77 

X. The Humors of Election 87 

XI. An Endicott Heir 100 

XII. The Hate of Hannibal 107 

XIII. Anne Dillon’s Felicity 119 

XIV. Aboard the “Arrow” 128 

XV. The Invasion of Ireland 137 

XVI. Castle Moyna 147 

XVII. The Ambassador 158 

XVIII. Judy Visits the Pope 170 

XIX. La Belle Colette 177 

XX. The Escaped Nun . 190 

XXI. An Anxious Night . . . ... 199 

XXII. The End of a Melodrama 208 

XXIII. The First Blow 218 


v 


vi 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXIV. Anne Makes History 227 

XXV. The Cathedral 236 

XXVI. The Fall of Livingstone 248 

XXVII. A Problem of Disappearance 258 

XXVIII. A First Test 266 

XXIX. The Nerve of Anne 274 

XXX. Under the Eyes of Hate 283 

XXXI. The Heart of Honora 296 

XXXII. A Harpy at the Feast 304 

XXXIII. Sonia Consults Livingstone 309 

XXXIV. Arthur’s Appeal 317 

XXXV. The End of Mischief 326 

XXXVI. Love is Blind 333 

XXXVII. A Tale Well Told 341 

XXXVIII. Three Scenes 350 


THE MAN WHO VANISHED. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE HOLY OILS. 

Horace Endicott once believed that life began for him 
the day he married Sonia Westfield. The ten months 
spent with the young wife were of a hue so roseate as to 
render discussion of the point foolish. His youth had 
been a happy one, of the roystering, innocent kind : noisy 
with yachting, baseball, and a moderate quantity of college 
beer, but clean, as if his mother had supervised it ; yet he 
had never really lived in his twenty-five years, until the 
blessed experience of along honeymoon and a little house- 
keeping with Sonia had woven into his life the light of 
sun and moon and stars together. However, as he ad- 
mitted long afterwards, his mistake was as terrible as 
convincing. Life began for him that day he sat in the 
railway carriage across the aisle from distinguished Mon- 
signor O’Donnell, prelate of the Pope’s household, doctor 
in theology, and vicar-general of the New York diocese. 
The train being on its way to Boston, and the journey 
dull, Horace whiled away a slow hour watching the Mon- 
signor, and wondering what motives govern the activity 
of the priests of Rome. The priest was a handsome man of 
fifty, dark-haired, of an ascetic pallor, but undoubtedly 
practical, as his quick and business-like movements tes- 
tified. His dark eyes were of fine color and expression, 
and his manners showed the gentleman. 

“ Some years ago,” thought Horace,” I would have 
studied his person for indications of hoofs and horns — 


2 


so strangely was I brought up. He is just a poor fellow 
like myself — it is as great a mistake to make these men 
demi-gods as to make them demi-devils — and he denies 
himself a wife as a Prohibitionist denies himself a drink. 
He goes through his mummeries as honestly as a parson 
through his sermons or a dervish through his dances — 
it’s all one, and we must allow for it in the make-up of 
human nature. One man has his parson, another his 
priest, a third his dervish — and I have Sonia.” 

This satisfactory conclusion he dwelt upon lovingly, un- 
conscious that the Monsignor was now observing him in 
turn. 

“ A fine boy,” the priest thought,” with man written all 
over him. Honest face, virtuous expression, daring too, 
loving-hearted, lovable, clever, I’m sure, and his life has 
been too easy to develop any marked character. Too 
young to have been in the war, but you may be sure he 
wanted to go, and his mother had to exercise her author- 
ity to keep him at home. He has been enjoying me for 
an hour. . . . I’m as pleasant as a puzzle to him . . . 
he preferred to read me rather than Dickens, and I gather 
from his expression that he has solved me. By this time 
I am rated in his mind as an impostor. Oh, the children 
of the Mayflower, how hard for them to see anything in 
life except through the portholes of that ship.” 

With a sigh the priest returned to his book, and the 
two gentlemen, having had their fill of speculation, forgot 
each other directly and forever. At this point the accident 
occurred. The slow train ran into a train ahead, which 
should have been farther on at that moment. All the 
passengers rose up suddenly, without any ceremony, quite 
speechless, and flew up the car like sparrows. Then the 
car turned on its left side, and Horace rolled into the out- 
stretched arms and elevated legs of Monsignor O’Donnell. 
He was kicked and embraced at the same moment, receiv- 
ing these attentions in speechless awe, as he could not re- 
call who was to blame for the introduction and the atti- 
tude. For a moment he reasoned that they had become 
the object of most outrageous ridicule from the other pas- 
sengers ; for these latter had suddenly set up a shouting 
and screeching very scandalous. Horace wondered if the 
priest would help him to resent this storm of insult, and 
he raised himself off the Monsignor’s face, and removed 


3 


the rest of his person from the Monsignor’s body, in order 
the more politely to invite him to the battle. Then he 
discovered the state of things in general. The overthrown 
car was at a stand-still. That no one was hurt seemed 
happily clear from the vigorous yells of everybody, and the 
fine scramble through the car-windows. The priest got 
up leisurely and felt himself. Next he seized his satchel 
eagerly. 

“Now it was more than an accident that I brought the 
holy oils along,” said he to Horace. “ I was vexed to find 
them where they shouldn’t be, yet see how soon I find use 
for them. Someone must be badly hurt in this disaster, 
and of course it’ll be one of my own.” 

“ I hope,” said the other politely, “that I did you no 
harm in falling on you. I could not very well help it.” 

“ Fortune was kinder to you than if the train rolled over 
the other way. Don’t mention it, my son. I’ll forgive 
you, if you will find me the way out, and. learn if any have 
been injured.” 

The window was too small fora man of the Monsignor’s 
girth, but through the rear door the two crawled out com- 
fortably, Monsignor dragging the satchel and murmuring 
cheerfully : “ How lucky ! the holy oils ! ” It was just 
sundown, and the wrecked train lay in a meadow, with a 
pretty stream running by, whose placid ripplings mocked 
the tumult of the mortals examining their injuries in the 
field. Yet no one had been seriously injured. Bruises 
and cuts were plentiful, some fainted from shock, but each 
was able to do for himself, not so much as a bone having 
been broken. For a few minutes the Monsignor rejoiced 
that he would have no use for what he called the holy oils. 
Then a trainman came running, white and broken- 
tongued, crying out: “There was a priest on the train 
— who has seen him ? ” It turned out that the fireman 
had been caught in the wrecked locomotive, and so 
crushed that he was dying. 

“And it’s a priest he’s cryin’ for, sir,” groaned the 
trainman, as he came up to the Monsignor. The dying 
man lay in the shade of some trees beside the stream, and 
a lovely woman had his head in her lap, and wept silently 
while the poor boy gasped every now and then “ mother” 
and “ the priest.” She wiped the death-dew from his face, 
from which the soot had been washed with water from the 


4 


stream, and moistened his lips with a cordial. He was a 
youth, of the kind that should not die too early, so vigor- 
ous was his young body, so manly and true his dear face ; 
but it was only a matter of ten minutes stay beside the 
little stream for Tim Hurley. The group about him made 
way for Monsignor, who sank on his knees beside him, 
and held up the boy’s face to the fading light. 

“ The priest is here, Tim,” he said gently, and Endicott 
saw the receding life rush back with joy into the agonized 
features. With something like a laugh he raised his inert 
hands, and seized the hands of the priest, which he covered 
with kisses. 

“ I shall die happy, thanks be to God,” he said weakly ; 
“ and, father, don’t forget to tell my mother. It’s her 
last consolation, poor dear.” 

“ And I have the holy oils, Tim,” said Monsignor softly. 

Another rush of light to the darkening face ! 

“ Tell her that, too, father dear,” said Tim. 

u With my own lips,” answered Monsignor. 

The bystanders moved away a little distance, and the 
lady resigned her place, while Tim made his last confession. 
Endicott stood and wondered at the sight ; the priest 
holding the boy’s head with his left arm, close to his bosom 
and Tim grasping lovingly the hand of his friend, while he 
whispered in little gasps his sins and his repentance ; 
briefly, for time was pressing. Then Monsignor called 
Horace and bade him support the lad’s head ; and also 
the lovely lady and gave her directions “ for his mother’s 
sake.” She was woman and mother both, no doubt, by 
the way she served another woman’s son in his fatal dis- 
tress. The men brought her water from the stream. 
With her own hands she bared his feet, bathed and wiped 
them, washed his hands, and cried tenderly all .the time. 
Horace shuddered as he dried the boy’s sweating forehead, 
and felt the chill of that death which had never yet come 
near him. He saw now what the priest meant by the holy 
oils. Out of his satchel Monsignor took a golden cylinder, 
unscrewed the top, dipped his thumb in what appeared to 
be an oily substance, and applied it to Tim’s eyes, to his 
ears, his nose, his mouth, the palms of his hands, and the 
soles of his feet, distinctly repeating certain Latin invoca- 
tions as he worked. Then he read for some time from a 
little book, and finished by wiping his fingers in cotton 


5 


and returning all to the satchel again. There was a look 
of supreme satisfaction on his face. 

“ You are all right now, Tim/' he said cheerfully. 

“ All right, father,” repeated the lad faintly, “ and 
don't forget to tell mother everything, and say I died 
happy, praising God, and that she won't be long after me. 
And let Harry Cutler” — the engineer came forward and 
knelt by his side — “ tell her everything. She knew how 
he liked me and a word from him was more ” 

His voice faded away. 

“ I’ll tell her,” murmured the engineer brokenly, and 
slipped away in unbearable distress. The priest looked 
closer into Tim’s face. 

“ He’s going fast,” he said, “and I'll ask you all to 
kneel and say amen to the last prayers for the boy.” 

The crowd knelt by the stream in profound silence, and 
the voice of the priest rose like splendid music, touching, 
sad, yet to Horace unutterably pathetic and grand. 

“ Go forth, 0 Christian soul,” the Monsignor read, 
“in the name of God the Father Almighty, who created 
thee ; in the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, 
who suffered for thee ; in the name of the Holy Ghost, 
who was poured forth upon thee ; in the name of the 
Angels and Archangels ; in the name of the Thrones and 
Dominations ; in the name of the Principalities and 
Powers ; in the name of the Cherubim and Seraphim ; in 
the name of the Patriarchs and Prophets ; in the name of 
the holy Apostles and Evangelists ; in the name of the 
holy Martyrs and Confessors ; in the name of the holy 
Monks and Hermits ; in the name of the holy Virgins and 
of all the Saints of God ; may thy place be this day in 
peace, and thy abode in holy Sion. Through Jesus 
Christ our Lord. Amen.” 

Then came a pause and the heavy sigh of the dying one 
shook all hearts. Endicott did not dare to look down at 
the mournful face of the fireman, for a terror of death had 
come upon him, that he should be holding the head of 
one condemned to the last penalty of nature ; at the same 
moment he could not help thinking that a king might not 
have been more nobly sent forth on his journey to judg- 
ment than humble Tim Hurley. Monsignor took another 
look at the lad's face, then closed his book, and took off 
the purple ribbon which had hung about his neck. 


6 


“It’s over. The man’s dead,” he announced to the 
silent crowd. There was a general stir, and a movement 
to get a closer look at the quiet body lying on the grass. 
Endicott laid the head down and rose to his feet. The 
woman who had ministered to the dying so sweetly tied 
up his chin and covered his face, murmuring with tears, 
“ His poor mother.” 

“ Ah, there is the heart to be pitied,” sighed the Mon- 
signor. “This heart aches no more, but the mother’s 
will ache and not die for many a year perhaps.” 

Endicott heard his voice break, and looking saw that 
the tears were falling from his eyes, he wiping them away 
in the same matter-of-fact fashion which had marked his 
ministrations to the unfortunate fireman. 

“Death is terrible only to those who love,” he added, 
and the words sent a pang into the heart of Horace. It 
had never occurred to him that death was love’s most 
dreaded enemy, — that Sonia might die while love was 
young. 


7 


CHAPTER II. 

THE NTGHT AT THE TAVERN". 

The travelers of the wrecked train spent the night at 
the nearest village, whither all went on foot before dark- 
ness came on. Monsignor took possession of Horace, also 
of the affections of the tavern-keeper, and of the best 
things which belonged to that yokel and his hostelry. It 
was prosperity in the midst of disaster that he and Endi- 
cott should have a room on the first floor, and find 
themselves comfortable in ten minutes after their arrival. 
By the time they had enjoyed a refreshing meal, and dis- 
cussed the accident to the roots, Horace Endicott felt 
that his soul was at ease with the Monsignor, who at no 
time had displayed any other feeling than might arise 
fr'om a long acquaintance with the young man. One 
would have pronounced the two men, as they settled down 
into the comfort of their room, two collegians who had 
traveled much together. 

“ It was an excellent thing that I brought the holy oils 
along,” Monsignor said, as if Endicott had no other inter- 
est in life than this particular form of excellence. To a 
polite inquiry he explained the history, nature, and use of 
the mysterious oils. 

“ I can understand how a ceremony of that kind would 
soothe the last hoars of Tim Hurley,” said the pagan 
Endicott, “ but I am curious, if you will pardon me, to 
know if the holy oils would have a similar effect on Mon- 
signor O’Donnell.” 

“ The same old supposition,” chuckled the priest, “ that 
there is one law for the crowd, the mob, the diggers, and 
another for the illuminati. Now, let me tell you, Mr. 
Endicott, that with all his faith Tim Hurley could not 
have welcomed priest and oils more than I shall when I 
need them. The anguish of death is very bitter, which 
you are too young to know, and it is a blessed thing to 


8 


have a sovereign remedy ready for that anguish in the 
Sacrament of Extreme Unction. The Holy Oils are the 
thing which Macbeth desired when he demanded so bitterly 
of the physician, 

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, 

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow ? 

That is my conviction. So if you are near when I am 
going to judgment, come in and see how emphatically I 
shall demand the holy oils, even before a priest be willing 
to bring them.” 

“ It seems strange,” Horace commented, “ very strange. 
I cannot get at your point of view at all.” 

Then he went on to ask questions rapidly, and Monsig- 
nor had to explain the meaning of his title, a hundred 
things connected with his priesthood, and to answer 
many objections to his explanations ; until the night had 
worn on to bedtime, and the crowd of guests began to 
depart from the verandahs. It was all so interesting to 
Horace. In the priest and his conversation he had caught 
a glimpse of a new world both strange and fascinating. 
Curious too was the profound indifference of men like 
himself — college men — to its existence. It did not seem 
possible that the Roman idea could grow into proportions 
under the bilious eyes of the omniscient Saxon, and not 
a soul be aware of its growth ! However, Monsignor was 
a pleasant man, a true college lad, an interesting talker, 
with music in his voice, and a sincere eye. He was not 
a controversialist, but a critic, and he did not seem to 
mind when Horace went off into a dream of Sonia, and 
asked questions far from the subject. 

Long afterwards Endicott recalled a peculiarity of this 
night, which escaped his notice at the time : his sensi- 
tiveness to every detail of their surroundings, to the colors 
of the room, to the shades of meaning in the words of 
the Monsignor, to his tricks of speech and tone, quite 
unusual in Horace’s habit. Sonia complained that he 
never could tell her anything clear or significant of places 
he had seen. The room which had been secured from the 
landlord was the parlor of the tavern ; long and low, 
colonial in the very smell of the tapestry carpet, with 
doors and mantel that made one think of John Adams and 
General Washington. The walls had a certain terror in 


9 


them, a kind of suspense, as when a jury sits petrified 
while their foreman announces a verdict of death. A long 
line of portraits in oil produced this impression. The 
faces of ancient neighbors, of the Adams, the Endicotts, 
the Bradburys, severe Puritans, for whom the name of 
priest meant a momentary stoppage of the heart, looked 
coldly and precisely straight out from their frames on the 
Monsignor. Horace fancied that they exchanged glances. 
What fun it would have been to see the entire party move 
out from their frames, and put the wearer of the Roman 
purple to shameful flight. 

“ I’ll bet they don’t let you sleep to-night,” he said to 
the priest, who laughed at the conceit. 

A cricket came out on the window-sill, chirped at 
Horace’s elbow, and fled at the sound of near voices. 
Through the thick foliage of the chestnut trees outside 
he could see stars at times that made him think of Sonia’s 
eyes. The wind shook the branches gently, and made 
little moans and whispers in the corners, as if the ghosts 
of the portraits were discussing the sacrilege of the Mon- 
signor’s presence. Horace thought at the time his nerves 
were strung tight by the incidents of the day, and his 
interest deeply stirred by the conversation of the priest ; 
since hitherto he had always thought of wind as a thing 
that blew disagreeably except at sea, noisy insects as public 
nuisances to be caught and slain, and family portraits the 
last praiseworthy attempt of ancestors to disturb the sleep 
of their remote heirs. When he had somewhat tired of 
asking his companion questions, it occurred to him that 
the Monsignor had asked none in return, and might waive 
his right to this privilege of good-fellowship. He men- 
tioned the matter. 

“ Thank you,” said Monsignor, “ but I know all about 
you. See now if I give you a good account of your life 
and descent.” 

He was promenading the room before the picture-jury 
frowning on him. He looked at them a moment solemnly. 

“ Indeed I know what I would have to expect from you,” 
he said to the portraits, “ if you were to sit upon my case 
to-night. Your descendant here is more merciful.” 

They laughed together. 

“Well,” to Horace, “you asked me many ques- 
tions, because you know nothing about me or mine. 


10 


although we have been on the soil this half century. 
The statesmen of your blood disdain me. This scorn 
is in the air of New England, and is part of your 
marrow. Here is an example of it. Once on a vacation 
1 spent a few weeks in the house of a Puritan lady, who 
learned of my faith and blood only a week before my 
leaving. She had been very kind, and when I bade her 
good-by I assured her that I would remember her in my 
prayers. ‘ You needn’t mind,’ she replied, ‘ my own prayers 
are much better than any you can sav.’ This temper ex- 
plains why you have to ask questions about me, and I have 
none to ask concerning you.” 

Horace had to admit the contention. 

“ Life began for you near the river that turned the 
wheel of the old sawmill. Ah, that river ! It was the 
beginning of history, of time, of life ! It came from 
the beyond and it went over the rim of the wonderful 
horizon, singing and laughing like a child. How often 
you dreamed of following it to its end, where you were 
certain a glory, felt only in your dreams, filled the land. 
The fishes only could do that, for they had no feet to be 
tired by walking. Your first mystery was that wheel which 
the water turned : a monstrous thing, a giant, ugly and 
deadly, whose first movement sent you off in terror. How 
could it be that the gentle, smiling, yielding water, which 
took any shape from a baby hand, had power to speed that 
giant ! The time came when you bathed in the stream, 
mastered it, in spite of the terror which it gave you one 
day when it swallowed the life of a comrade. Do you re- 
member this ? 99 

Monsignor held up his hand with two fingers stretched 
out beyond the others, and gave a gentle war-whoop. 
Horace laughed. 

“ I suppose every boy in the country invited his chums 
to a swim that way,” he said. 

“Just so. The sign language was universal. The 
old school on the village green succeeded the river 
and the mill in your history. Miss Primby taught it, 
dear old soul, gentler than a mother even, and you 
laughed at her curls, and her funny ways, which hid 
from child’s eyes a noble heart. It was she who 
bound up your black eye after the battle with Bouncer, 
the bully, whose face and reputation you wrecked in the 


11 


same hour for his oppression of the most helpless boy in 
school. That feat made you the leader of the secret 
society which met at awful hours in the deserted shanty 
just below the sawmill. What a creep went up and down 
your spine as in the chill of the evening the boys came 
stealing out of the undergrowth one by one, and greeted 
their chief with the password, known by every parent in 
town. The stars looked down upon you as they must 
have looked upon all the great conspirators of time since 
the world began. You felt that the life of the government 
hung by a thread, when such desperate characters took 
the risk of conspiring against it. What a day was July 
the Fourth — what wretches were the British — what 
a hero was General Washington ! What land was like 
this country of the West ? Its form on the globe was a 
promontory while all others lay very low on the plane. ” 

“In that spirit you went to Harvard and ran full 
against some great questions of life. The war was on, 
and your father was at the front. Only your age, your 
fathers 's orders, and your mother’s need held you back 
from the fight. You were your mother’s son. It is 
written all over you, — and me. And your father loved you 
doubly that you were his son and owned her nature. He 
fell in battle, and she was slain by a crueller foe, the grief 
that, seizing us, will not let us live even for those we love. 
God rest the faithful dead, give peace to their souls, and 
complete their love and their labors ! My father and 
mother are living yet— the sweetest of blessings at my 
time of life. You grieved as youth grieves, but life had 
its compensations. You are a married man, and you love 
as your parents loved, with the fire and tenderness of 
both. Happy man ! Fortunate woman ! ” 

He stopped before the nearest portrait, and stared 
at it. 

“ Well, what do you think of my acquaintance with 
your history ? ” he asked. 

“ Very clever, Monsignor,” answered Horace impressed. 
“It is like necromancy, though I see how the trick is 
done.” 

“ Precisely. It is my own story. It is the story of 
thousands of boys whom your set will not regard as 
American boys, unless when they are looking for fighting 
material. Everything and anything that could carry a gun 


12 


in the recent war was American with a vengeance. The 
Boston Coriolanus kissed such an one and swore that he 
must have come over in the Mayflower. But enough — I am 
not holding a brief for anybody. The description I have 
just given you of your life and mine is also ” 

“One moment — pardon me/’ said Horace, “ how 
did you know I was married ?” 

“ And happy ? ” said Monsignor. “ Well, that was easy. 
When we were talking to-night at tea about the hanging 
of Howard Tims, what disgust in your tone when you 
cried out, there should be no pity for the wretch that kills 
his wife.” 

“ And there should not.” 

“ Of course. But 1 knew Tims. I met him for an 
hour, and I did not feel like hanging him.” 

“ You are a celibate.” 

“Therefore unprejudiced. But he was condemned by 
a jury of unmarried men. A clever fellow he is, and yet 
he made some curious blunders in his attempt to escape 
the other night. I would like to have helped him. I 
have a theory of disappearing from the sight of men, 
which would help the desperate much. This Tims was a 
lad of your own appearance, disposition, history even. I 
had a feeling that he ought not to die. What a pity we are 
too wise to yield always to our feelings.” 

“ But about your theory, Monsignor ? ” said Horace. “ A 
theory of disappearing ? ” 

“ A few nights ago some friends of mine were discussing 
the possible methods by which such a man as Tims 
might make his escape sure. You know that the influ- 
ences at his command were great, and tremendous efforts 
were made to spare his family the disgrace of the gallows. 
The officers of the law were quite determined that he 
should not escape. If he had escaped, the pursuit would 
have been relentless and able. He would have been 
caught. And as I maintained, simply because he would 
never think of using his slight acquaintance with me. 
You smile at that. So did my friends. I have been 
reading up the escapes of famous criminals — it is quite a 
literature. I learned therein one thing : that they were 
all caught again because they could not give up con- 
nection with their past : with the people, the scenes, the 
habits to which they had been accustomed. So they left 


13 


a little path from their hiding-place to the past, and the 
clever detectives always found it. Thinking over this 
matter I discovered that there is an art of disappearing, a 
real art, which many have used to advantage. The prin- 
ciple by which this art may be formulated is simple : the 
person disappearing must cut himself off from his past 
as completely as if he had been secretly drowned in mid- 
ocean.” 

“ They all seem to do that,” said Horace, “ and yet they 
are caught as easily as rats with traps and cheese.” 

“ I see you think this art means running away to Brazil 
in a wig and blue spectacles, as they do in a play. Let me 
show some of the consequences a poor devil takes upon 
himself who follows the art like an artist. He must es- 
cape, not only from his pursuers — that’s easy — but 
from his friends — not so easy — and chiefly from himself 
— there’s the rub. He who flies from the relentless pur- 
suit of the law must practically die. He must change 
his country, never meet friend or relative again, get a 
new language, a new trade, a new place in society ; in 
fact a new past, peopled with parents and relatives, a new 
habit of body and life, a new appearance ; the color of hair, 
eyes,. skin must be changed ; and he must eat and drink, 
walk, sleep, think, and speak differently. He must be- 
come another man almost as if he had changed his nature 
for another’s.” 

“ I understand,” said Horace, interested ; “ but the 
theory is impossible. No one could do that even if he 
desired.” 

“ Tims would have desired it and accomplished it had 
I thought of suggesting it to him. Here is what would 
have happened. He escapes from the prison, which is 
easy enough, and comes straight to me. We never met 
but once. Therefore not a man in the world would have 
thought of looking for him at my house. A week later 
he is transferred to the house of Judy Trainor, who has 
been expecting a sick son from California, a boy who dis- 
appeared ten years previous and is probably dead. I ar- 
range her expectation, and the neighbors are invited to 
rejoice with her over the finding of her son. He spends a 
month or two in the house recovering from his illness, and 
when he appears in public he knows as much about the past 
of Tommy Trainor as Tommy ever knew. He is wel- 


14 


corned by his old friends. They recognize him from his 
resemblance to his father, old Micky Trainor. He slips 
into his position comfortably, and in five years the whole 
neighborhood would go to court and swear Tims into a 
lunatic asylum if he ever tried to resume his own per- 
sonality. ” 

The two men set up a shout at this sound conclusion. 

“ After all, there are consequences as dark as the gal- 
lows / 1 said Horace. 

“For instance,” said the priest with a wave of his 
hand, “ sleeping under the eyes of these painted ghosts.” 

“Poor Tim Hurley,” said Horace, “little he thought 
he’d be a ghost to-night.” 

“ He’s not to be regretted,” replied the other, “ except 
for the heart that suffers by his absence. He is with 
God. Death is the one moment of our career when we 
throw ourselves absolutely into the arms of God.” 

The two were getting ready to slip between the sheets 
of the pompous colonial bed, when Horace began to laugh 
softly to himself. He kept up the chuckling until they 
were lying side by side in the darkened room. 

“ I am sure, I have a share in that chuckle,” said Mon- 
signor. 

“Shades of my ancestors,” murmured Horace, “for- 
give this insult to your pious memory — that I should oc- 
cupy one bed with an idolatrous priest.” 

“ They have got over all that. In eternity there is no 
bigotry. But what a pity that two fine boys like us 
should be kept apart by that awful spirit which prompts 
men to hate one another for the love of God, and to lie 
like slaves for the pure love of truth.” 

“ I am cured,” said Horace, placing his hand on the 
Monsignor’s arm. “ I shall never again overlook the 
human in a man. Let me thank you, Monsignor, for 
this opening of my eyes. I shall never forget it. This 
night has been Arabian in its enchantment. I don’t like 
the idea of to-morrow.” 

“ Ho more do I. Life is tiresome in a way. For me 
it is an everlasting job of beating the air with truth, be- 
cause others beat it with lies. We can’t help but rejoice 
when the time comes to breathe the eternal airs, where 
nothing but truth can live.” 

Horace sighed, and fell asleep thinking of Sonia rather 


15 


than the delights of eternity. The priest slept as soundly. 
No protest against this charming and manly companion- 
ship stirred the silence of the room. The ghosts of the 
portraits did not disturb the bold cricket of the window- 
sill. He chirped proudly, pausing now and then to catch 
the breathing of the sleepers, and to interpret their un- 
conscious movings. The trained and spiritual ear might 
have caught the faint sighs and velvet footsteps of long- 
departed souls, or interpreted them out of the sighing 
and whispering of the leaves outside the window, and the 
tread of nervous mice in the fireplace. The dawn came 
and lighted up the faces of the men, faces rising out of 
the heavy dark like a revelation of another world ; the 
veil of melancholy, which Sleep borrows from its brother 
Death, resting on the head which Sonia loved, and deep- 
ening the shadows on the serious countenance of the 
priest. They lay there like brothers of the same womb, 
and one might fancy the great mother Eve stealing in be- 
tween the two lights of dawn and day to kiss and bless 
her just-united children. 

When they were parting after breakfast, Monsignor 
said gayly. 

“ If 'at any time you wish to disappear, command me.” 

‘ ‘ Thanks, but I would rather you had to do the act, 
that I might see you carry out your theory. Where do 
you go now ? ” 

“To tell Tim Hurley’s mother he’s dead, and thus 
break her heart,” he replied sadly, “and then to mend it 
by telling her how like a saint he died.” 

“ Add to that,” said Horace, with a sudden rush of 
tears, which for his life he could not explain, “the com- 
fort of a sure support from me for the rest of her life.” 

They clasped hands with feeling, and their eyes ex- 
pressed the same thought and resolution to meet again. 


16 


CHAPTER III. 

THE ABYSSES OF PAIN. 

Horace Endicott, though not a youth of deep senti- 
ment, had capacities in that direction. Life so far 
had been chiefly of the surface for him. Happiness had 
hidden the deep and dangerous meanings of things. He 
was a child yet in his unconcern for the future, and the 
child, alone of mortals, enjoys a foretaste of immortality, 
in his belief that happiness is everlasting. The shadow 
of death clouding the pinched face of Tim Hurley was his 
first glimpse of the real. He had not seen his father and 
mother die. The thought that followed, Sonia’s beloved 
face lying under that shadow, had terrified him. It was 
the uplifting of the veil of illusion that enwraps child- 
hood. The thought stayed his foot that night as he 
turned into the avenue leading up to his own house, and 
he paused to consider this new dread. 

The old colonial house greeted his eyes, solemn and 
sweet in the moonlight, with a few lights of human com- 
fort in its windows. He had never thought so before, 
but now it came straight to his heart that this was his 
home, his old friend, steadfast and unchanging, which 
had welcomed him into the world, and had never changed 
its look to him, never closed its doors against him ; all 
that remained of the dear, but almost forgotten past ; the 
beautiful stage from which all the ancient actors had 
made irrevocable exit. What beauty had graced it for a 
century back ! What honors its children had brought to 
it from councils of state and of war ! What true human 
worth had sanctified it ! Last and the least of the splen- 
did throng, he felt his own unworthiness sadly; but he 
was young yet, only a boy, and he said to himself that 
Sonia had crowned the glory of the old house with her 
beauty, her innocence, her devoted love. In making her 
its mistress he had not wronged its former rulers, nor 


17 


broken the traditions of beauty. He stood a long time 
looking at the old place, wondering at the charm which 
it had so suddenly flung upon him. Then he shook off 
the new and weird feeling and flew to embrace his Sonia 
of the starry eyes. 

Alas, poor boy ! He stood for a moment on the thresh- 
old. He could hear the faint voices of servants, the 
shotting of distant doors, and a hundred sweet sounds 
within ; and around him lay the calmness of the night, 
with a drowsy moon overhead lolling on lazy clouds. 
Nothing warned him that he stood on the threshold of 
pain. No instinct hinted at the horror within. The 
house that sheltered his holy mother and received her last 
breath, that covered fora few hours the body of his heroic 
father, the house of so many honorable memories, had 
become the habitation of sinners, whose shame was to be 
everlasting. He stole in on tiptoe, with love stirring his 
young pulses. For thirty minutes there was no break in 
the silence. Then he came out as he entered, on tiptoe, 
and no one knew that he had seen with his own eyes into 
the deeps of hell. For thirty minutes, that seemed to 
have the power of as many centuries, he had looked on 
sin, shame, disgrace, with what seemed to be the eyes of 
God ; so did the horror shock eye and heart, yet leave 
him sight and life to look again and again. 

In that time he tasted with his own lips the bitterness 
which makes the most wretched death sweeter by com- 
parison than bread and honey to the hungry. At the end 
of it, when he stole away a madman, he felt within his 
own soul the cracking and upheaving of some immensity, 
and saw or felt the opening of abysses from which rose 
fearful exhalations of crime, shapes of corruption, things 
without shape that provoked to rage, pain and madness. 
He was not without cunning, since he closed the doors 
softly, stole away in the shadows of the house and the 
avenue, and escaped to a distant wood unseen. From his 
withered face all feeling except horror had faded. Once 
deep in the wood, he fell under the trees like an epileptic, 
turned on his face, and dug the earth with hands and 
feet and face in convulsions of pain. 

The frightened wood-life, sleeping or waking, fled from 
the great creature in its agony. In the darkness he 
seemed some monster, which in dreadful silence, writhed 
2 


18 


and fought down a slow road to death. He was hardly 
conscious of his own behavior, poor innocent, crushed 
by the sins of others. He lived, and every moment was a 
dying. He gasped as with the last breath, yet each breath 
came back with new torture. He shivered to the root of 
nature, like one struck fatally, and the convulsion revived 
life and thought and horror. After long hours a dreadful 
sleep bound his senses, and he lay still, face downward, 
arms outstretched, breathing like a child, a pitiful sight. 
Death must indeed be a binding thing, that father and 
mother did not leave the grave to soothe and strengthen 
their wretched son. He lay there on his face till dawn. 
The crowing of the cock, which once warned Peter of his 
shame, waked him. He turned over, stared at the 
branches above, sat up puzzled, and showed his face to 
the dim light. His arms gathered in his knees, and he 
made an effort to recollect himself. But no one would 
have mistaken that sorrowful, questioning face ; it was 
Adam looking toward the lost Eden with his arms about 
the dead body of his son. A desolate and unconscious 
face, wretched and vacant as a lone shore strewn with 
wreckage. 

He struggled to his feet after a time, wondering at his 
weakness. The effort roused and steadied him, his mind 
cleared as he walked to the edge of the wood and stared 
at the old house, which now in the mist of morning had 
the fixed, still, reproachful look of the dead. As if a 
spirit had leaped upon him, memory brought back his 
personality and his grief together. Men told afterwards, 
early laborers in the fields, of a cry from the Endicott 
woods, so strange and woful that their hearts beat fast 
and their frightened ears strained for its repetition. 
Sonia heard it in her adulterous dreams. It was not re- 
peated. The very horror of it terrified the man who 
uttered it. He stood by a tree trembling, for a double 
terror fell upon him, terror of her no less than of himself. 
He staggered through the woods, and sought far-away 
places in the hills, where none might see him. When 
the sun drifted in through dark boughs he cursed it, the 
emblem of joy. The singing of the birds # sounded to his 
ears like the shriek of madmen. When he could think 
and reason somewhat, he called up the vision of Sonia to 
wonder over it. The childlike eyes, the beautiful, 


19 


lovable face, the modest glance, the innocent blushes — 
had nature such masks for her vilest offspring ? The 
mere animal senses should have recognized at the first 
this deadly thing, as animals recognize their foes ; and he 
had lived with the viper, believing her the peer of his 
spotless mother. She was his wife ! Even at that mo- 
ment the passionate love of yesterday stirred in his veins 
and moved him to deeper horror. 

He doubted that he was Horace Endicott. Every one 
knew that boy to be the sanest of young men, husband to 
the loveliest of women, a happy, careless, wealthy fellow, 
almost beside himself with the joy of life. The madman 
who ran about the desolate wilds uttering strange and 
terrible things, who was wrapped within and without in 
torments of flame, who refrained from crime and death 
only because vengeance would thus be cheaply satisfied, 
could hardly be the boy of yesterday. Was sin such a 
magician that in a day it could evolve out of merry Horace 
and innocent Sonia two such wretches ? The wretch 
Sonia had proved her capacity for evil ; the wretch 
Horace felt his capabilities for crime and rejoiced in 
them. He must live to punish. A sudden fear came 
upon him that his grief and rage might bring death or 
madness, and leave him incapable of vengeance. They 
would wish nothing better. No, he must live, and think 
rationally, and not give way. But the mind worked on 
in spite of the will. It sat like Penelope over the loom, 
weaving terrible fancies in blood and flame ! the days that 
had been, the days that were passing ; the scenes of love 
and marriage ; the old house and its latest sinners ; and 
the days that were to come, crimson-dyed, shameful ; the 
dreadful loom worked as if by enchantment, scene follow- 
ing scene, the web endless, and the woven stuff flying 
into the sky like smoke from a flying engine, darkening 
all the blue. 

The days and nights passed while he wandered about in 
the open air. Hunger assailed him, distances wearied 
him, he did not sleep ; but these hardships rather cooled 
the inward fire, and did not harm him. One day he 
came to a pool, clear as a spring to its sandy bottom, 
embowered in trees, except on one side where the sun 
shone. He took off his clothes and plunged in. The 
waters closed over him sweet and cool as the embrace of 


20 


death. The loom ceased its working a while, and the 
thought rose up, is vengeance worth the trouble ? He 
sank to the sandy bed, and oh, it was restful ! A grip 
on a root held him there, and a song of his boyhood 
soothed his ears until it died away in heavenly music, far 
off, enticing, welcoming him to happier shores. He had 
found all at once forgetfulness and happiness, and he 
would remain. Then his grip loosened, and he came to 
the surface, swimming mechanically about, debating with 
himself another descent into the enchanted region be- 
neath. 

Some happy change had touched him. He felt the 
velvety waters grasp his body and rejoiced in it ; the little 
waves which he sent to the reedy bank made him smile 
with their huddling and back-rushing and laughing ; he 
held up his arm as he swam to see the sun flash through 
the drops of water from his hand. What a sweet bed 
of death ! No hard-eyed nurses and physicians with their 
array of bottles, no hypocrites snuffling sympathy while 
dreaming of fat legacies, no pious mummeries, only the in- 
nocent things direct from the hand of God, unstained by 
human sin and training, trees and bushes and flowers, the 
tender living things about, the voiceless and passionless 
music of lonely nature, the hearty sun, and the maternal 
embrace of the sweet waters. It was dying as the wild 
animals die, without ceremony ; as the flowers die, a 
gentle weakening of the stem, a rush of perfume to the 
soft earth, and the caressing winds to do the rest. Yes, 
down to the bottom again ! Who would have looked for 
so pleasant a door to death in that lonely and lovely pool ! 

He slipped his foot under the root so that it would hold 
him if he struggled, put his arms under his head like one 
about to sleep, and yielded his senses to that far-off, divine 
music, enticing, welcoming. ... It ceased, but not un- 
til he had forgotten all his sorrows and was speeding to- 
ward death. Sorrow rescued sorrow, and gave him back 
to the torturers. The old woman who passed by the 
pond that morning gathering flowers, and smiling as if 
she felt the delight of a child — the smile of a child 
on the mask of grief-worn age — saw his clothes and 
then his body floating upward helpless from the bottom. 
She seized his arm, and pulled him up on the low bank. 
He gasped a little and was able to thank her. 


21 


“If I hadn’t come along just then/’ she said placidly, 
as she covered him decently with his coat, “ you’d have 
been drownded. Took a cramp, I reckon ? ” 

“All I remember is taking a swim and sinking, mother. 

I am very much obliged to you, and can get along very 
well, I think.” 

“ If you want any help, just say so,” she answered. 
“ When you get dressed my house is a mile up the road, 
and the road is a mile from here. I can give you a cup 
of tea or warm milk, and welcome.” 

“ I’ll go after a while,” said he, “ and then I’ll be able 
to thank you still better for a very great service, mother.” 

She smiled at the affectionate title, and went her way. 
He became weak all at once, and for a while could not 
dress. The long bath had soothed his mind, and now 
distressed nature could make her wants known. Hunger, 
soreness of body, drowsiness, attacked him together. He 
found it pleasant to lie there and look at the sun, and 
feel too happy to curse it as before. The loom had done 
working, Penelope was asleep. The door seemed forever 
shut on the woman known as Sonia, who had tormented 
him long ago. The dead should trouble no one living. 
He was utterly weary, sore in every spot, crushed by tor- 
ment as poor Tim Hurley had been broken by his engine. 
This recollection, and his lying beside the pool as Tim 
lay beside- the running river, recalled the Monsignor and 
the holy oils. As he fell asleep the fancy struck him that 
his need at that moment was the holy oils ; some balm for 
sick eyes and ears, for tired hands and soiled feet, like 
his mother’s kisses long ago, that would soothe the aching, 
and steal from the limbs into the heart afterwards ; a 
heavenly dew that would aid sleep in restoring the stiffened 
sinews and distracted nerves. The old woman came back 
to him later, and found him in his sleep of exhaustion. 
Like a mother, she pillowed his head, covered him with 
his clothes, and her own shawl, and made sure that his 
rest would be safe and comfortable. She studied the 
noble young head, and smoothed it tenderly. The pitiful 
face, a terrible face for those who could read, so bitterly 
had grief written age on the curved dimpled surface of 
youth, stirred some convulsion in her, for she threw up 
her arms in despair as she walked away homeward, and 
wild sobs choked her for minutes. 


22 


He sat on the kitchen porch of her poor home that 
afternoon, quite free from pain. A wonderful relief had 
come to him. He seemed lifted into an upper region of 
peace like one just returned from infernal levels. The 
golden air tasted like old wine. The scenes about him 
were marvelous to his eyes. His own personality redeemed 
from recent horror became a delightful thing. 

“It is terrible to suffer, ” he said to Martha Willis. 
“ In the last five days I have suffered.” 

“ As all men must suffer,” said the women resignedly. 

“ Then you have suffered too ? How did you ever get 
over it, mother ? ” 

She did not tell him, after a look at his face, that some 
sorrows are indelible. 

“ We have to get over everything, son. And it is lucky 
we can do it, without running into an insane asylum.” 

“Were your troubles very great, mother ?” 

“ Lots of people about say I deserved them, so they 
couldn’t be very great,” she answered, and he laughed at 
her queer way of putting it, then checked himself. 

“ Sorrow is sorrow to him who suffers,” he said, “ no 
matter what people say about it. And I would not wish 
a beast to endure what I did. I would help the poor 
devil who suffered, no matter how much he deserved his 
pain.” 

“ Only those who suffered feel that way. I am alone 
now, but this house was crowded thirty years ago. There 
was Lucy, and John, and Oliver, and Henry, and my 
husband, and we were very happy.” 

“ And they are all gone ? ” 

“ I shall never see them again here. Lucy died when 
I needed her most, and Henry, such a fine boy, followed 
her before he was twenty. They are safe in the church- 
yard, and that makes me happy, for they are mine still, 
they will always be mine. John was like his father, and 
both were drunkards. They beat me in turn, and I was 
glad when tliey took to tramping. They’re tramping 
yet, as I hear, but I haven’t seen them in years. And 
Oliver, the cleverest boy in the school, and very head- 
strong, he went to Boston, and from there he went to jail 
for cheating a bank, and in jail he died. It was best for 
him and for me. I took him back to lie beside his brother 
and sister, though some said it was a shame. But what 


23 

can a mother do ? Her children are hers no matter if 
they turn out wrong. 

“ And you lived through it all, mother?” said the 
listener with his face working. 

“ Once I thought different, but now I know it was for 
the best,” she answered calmly, and chiefly for his bene- 
fit. “I had my days and years even, when I thought 
some other woman had taken Martha Willis’ place, a poor 
miserable creature, more like the dead than the live. 
But I often thought, since my own self came back, how 
lucky it was Lucy had her mother to close her eyes, and 
the same for poor Henry. And Oliver, he was pretty 
miserable dying in jail, but I never forgot what he said to 
me. ‘ Mother,’ he said, ‘ it’s like dying at home to have you 
with me here.’ He was very proud, and it cut him that 
the cleverest of the family should die in jail. And he 
said, ‘ you’ll put me beside the others, and take care of the 
grave, and not be ashamed of me, mother.’ Now just 
think of the way he’d have died if I had not been about to 
see to him. And I suppose the two tramps’ll come march- 
ing in some day to die, or to be buried, and they’ll be 
lucky to find me living. But anyway I’ve arranged it with 
the minister to see to them, and give them a place with 
their own, if I’m not here to look after them.” 

“ And you lived through it all ! ” repeated Horace in 
wonder. 

Her story gave him hope. He must put off thinking 
until grief had loosened its grip on his nerves, and the 
old self had come uppermost. He was determined that 
the old self should return, as Martha had proved it could 
return. He enjoyed its presence at that very moment, 
though with a dread of its impending departure. The 
old woman readily accepted him as a boarder for a few 
days or longer, and treated him like a son. He slept 
that night in a bed, the bed of Oliver and Henry, — 
their portraits hanging over the bureau — and slept as 
deeply as a wearied child. A blessed sleep was followed 
by a bitter waking. Something gripped him the moment 
he rose and looked out at the summer sun ; a cruel hand 
seized his breast, and weighted it with vague pain. Deep 
sighs shook him, and the loom of Penelope began its 
dreadful weaving of bloody visions, while the restful pool 
in the woods tempted him to its cool rest. For a moment 


24 


he gave way to the thought that all had ended for him on 
earth. Then he braced himself for his fight, went down 
to chat cheerfully with Martha, and ate her tasty break- 
fast with relish. He saw that his manner pleased the 
simple heart, the strong, heroic mother, the guardian of 
so many graves. 


25 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE ROAD TO NOTHINGNESS. 

“Whatever trouble you’re a-sufferin’ from/’ said 
Martha, as he was going, “ I can tell you one sure thing 
about it. Time changes it so’s you wouldn’t think it was 
the same trouble a year afterwards. Now, if you wait, 
and have patience, and don’t do anything one way or 
another for a month, you’ll be real glad you waited. Once 
I would have been glad to die the minute after sorrow 
came. Now I’m glad I didn’t die, for I’ve learned to see 
things different somehow.” 

His heart was being gnawed at that moment by horrible 
pain, but lie caught the force of her words and took his 
resolve against the seduction of the pool, that lay now in 
his vision, as beautiful as a window of heaven. 

“I’ve come to the same thought,” he answered. “ I’ll 
not do anything for a month anyway, unless it’s some- 
thing very wise and good. But I’m going now to think 
the matter over by myself, and I know that you have done 
me great service in helping me to look at my sorrows 
rightly.” 

She smiled her thanks and watched him as he struck 
out for the hills two miles away. Often had her dear 
sons left the door for the same walk, and she had watched 
them with such love and pride. Oh, life, life ! 

By the pool which tempted him so strongly Horace sat 
down to study the problem of his future. 

“ You are one solution of it,” he thought, as he smiled 
on its beautful waters. “ All others failing to please, you 
are here, su-re, definite, soft as a bed, tender as Martha, 
lovely as a dream. There will be no vulgar outcry when 
you untie the knot of woe. And because I am sure of you, 
and have such confidence in you, I can sit here and defy 
your present charm.” 

He felt indeed that he was strong again in spite of 


26 


pain. As one in darkness, longing for the light, might 
see afar the faint glint of the dawn, he had caught a 
glimpse of hope in the peace which came to him in Martha’s 
cottage. It could come again. In its light he knew that 
he could look upon the past with calmness, and feel no 
terror even at the name of Sonia. He would encourage 
its return. It was necessary for him to fix the present 
status of the woman whom he had once called his wife. He 
could reason from that point logically. She had never 
been his wife except by the forms of law. Her treason 
had begun with his love, and. her uncleanness was part of 
her nature ; so much had he learned on that fearful night 
which revealed her to him. His wealth and his name were 
the prizes which made her traitor to lover and husband. 
What folly is there in man, or what enchantment in beauty, 
or what madness in love, that he could have taken to his 
arms the thing that hated him and hated goodness ? 
Should not love, the best of God’s gifts, be wisdom too ? 
Or do men ever really love the object of passion ? 

Oh, he had loved her ! Not a doubt but that he loved 
her still ! Sonia, Sonia ! The pool wrinkled at the sound 
of her name, as ha shrieked it in anguish across the 
water. There was nothing in the world so beautiful as 
she. Her figure rose before him more entrancing than 
this fairy lake with its ever-changing loveliness. Its 
shadows under the trees were in her eyes, its luster under 
the sun was the luster of her body ! Oh, there was noth- 
ing of beauty in it, perfume, grace, color, its singing and 
murmuring on the shore, that this perfect sinner had not 
in her body ! 

He steadied himself with the thought of old Martha. 
A dread caught him that the image of this foul beauty 
would haunt him thus forever, and be able at any time 
to drive joy out of him and madness into him. Some 
part of him clung to her, and wove a thousand fancies about 
her beauty. When the pain of his desolation gripped him 
21ie result was invariable : she rose out of the mist of pain, 
^ot like a fury, or the harpy she was, but beautiful as the 
morning, far above him, with glorious eyes fixed on the 
heavens. He thought it rather the vision of his lost hap- 
piness than of her. If she were present then, he would 
have held her under the water with his hands squeezing 
her throat, and so doubly killed her. But what a terror 


27 


if this vision were to become permanent, and he should 
never know ease or the joy of living again ! And for a 
thing so worthless and so foul ! 

He steadied himself again with the thought of old 
Martha, and fixed his mind on the first fact, the starting- 
point of his reasoning. She had never been his wife. 
Her own lips had uttered that sentence. The law had 
bound them, and the law protected her now. But she 
enjoyed a stronger guard even : his name. It menaced him 
in each solution of the problem of his future life. He 
could do little without smirching that honored name. He 
might take his own life. But that would be to punish 
the innocent and to reward the guilty. His wealth would 
become the gilding of adultery, and her joy would become 
perfect in his death. Imagine him asleep in the grave, 
while she laughed over his ashes, crying to herself : 
always a fool. He might kill her, or him, or both ; a short 
punishment for a long treason, and then the trail of 
viperous blood over the name of Endicott forever ; not 
blood but slime ; not a tragedy, but the killing of rats in 
a cellar ; and perhaps a place for himself in a padded cell, 
legally mad. 

He might desert her, go away without explanation, and 
never see her again. That would be putting the burden 
of shame on his own shoulders, in exile and a branded man 
for her sake. She would still have his name, his income, 
her lover, her place in society, her right to explain his 
absence at her pleasure. He could ruin her ruined life 
by exposing her. Then would come the divorce court, 
the publicity, the leer of the mob, the pointed fingers of 
scorn. Impossible ! Why could he not leave the matter 
untouched and keep up appearances before the world ? 
Least endurable of any scheme. He knew that he could 
never meet her again without killing her, unless this 
problem was settled. When he had determined on what 
he should do, he might get courage to look on her face 
once more. 

He wore the day out in vain thought, varying the dul- 
ness by stamping about the pond, by swimming across it, 
by studying its pleasant features. There was magic in it. 
When he stripped off his clothes and flung them on the bank 
part of his grief went with them. When he plunged into 
the lovable water, not only did grief leave him, but 


28 


Horace Endicott returned ; that Horace who once swam 
a boy in such lakes, and went hilarious with the wild joy 
of living. He dashed about the pool in a gay frenzy, 
revelling in the sensation that tragedy had no part in his 
life, that sorrow and shame had not yet once come nigh 
him. The shore and the donning of his garments were 
like clouds pouring themselves out on the sunlit earth. 
He could hardly bear it, and hung about listlessly before 
he could persuade himself to dress. 

“ Surely you are my one friend,” he said to the quiet 
water. “ Is it that you feel certain of giving me my last 
sleep, my last kiss as you steal the breath from me ? 
Hone would do it gentlier. You give me release from 
pain, you alone. And you promise everlasting release. 
I will remember you if it comes to that.” 

The pool looked up to him out of deep evening shadows 
cast upon it by the woods. There was something human 
in the variety of its expression. As if a chained soul, 
silenced forever as to speech, condemned to a garment of 
water, struggled to reach a human heart by infinite shades 
of beauty, and endless variations of sound. The thought 
woke his pity, and he looked down at the water as one looks 
into the face of a suffering friend. Here were two cast- 
aways, cut off from the highway of life, imprisoned in 
circumstances as firmly as if behind prison grills. For 
him there was hope, for the pool nothing. At this mo- 
ment its calm face pictured profound sadness. The black 
shadow of the woods lay deep on the west bank, but its 
remotest edge showed a brilliant green, where the sun 
lingered on the top fringes of the foliage. Along the 
east bank, among the reeds, the sun showed crimson, and 
all the tender colors of the water plants faded in a glare 
of blood. This savage brilliance would soon give way to 
the gray mist of twilight, and then to the darkness of 
night. Even this poor dumb beauty reflected in its 
helplessly beautiful way the tragedies of mankind. 

As before with the evening came peace and release from 
pain. Again he sat on Martha's porch after supper, and 
thought nothing so beautiful as life ; and as he listened to 
further details of her life-story, imparted with the wise 
intention of binding him to life more securely, he felt 
that all was not yet lost for him. In his little room while 
the night was still young, he opened an old volume at the 


29 


play of Hamlet and read the story through. Surely he had 
never read this play before ? He recalled vaguely that it 
had been studied in college, that some great actor had 
played it for him, that he had believed it a wonderful 
thing ; memories now less real than dreams. For in 
reading it this night he entered into the very soul of 
Hamlet, lived his tortures over again, wept and raved in 
dumb show with the wretched prince, and flung himself 
and his book to the floor in grief at the pitiful ending. 
He was the Hamlet ; youth with a problem of the horrible ; 
called to solve that which shook the brains of statesmen ; 
dying in utter failure with that most pathetic dread of a 
wounded name. 

Oh, good Horatio, what a wounded name. 

Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me. 

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, 

Absent thee from felicity awhile, 

And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, 

To tell my story. 

For a little he had thought there could not be in 
the world such suffering as his ; how clear now that 
his peculiar sorrow was strange to no hour of unfortu- 
nate time ; an old story, innocence and virtue — God 
knew he had no pride in his own virtue — preyed upon 
by cunning vice. He read Hamlet again. Oh, what 
depth of anguish ! AVhat a portrayal of grief and 
madness ! Horace shook with the sobs that nearly choked 
him. Like the sleek murderer and his plump queen, the 
two creatures hatefulest to him lived their meanly pros- 
perous lives on his bounty. Wliat conscience flamed so 
dimly in the Danish prince that he could hesitate 
before his opportunity ? Long ago, had Horace been in 
his place, the guilty pair would have paid in blood for 
their lust and ambition. Hamlet would not kill himself 
because the Almighty had “ fixed his canon ’gainst self- 
slaughter;” or because in the sleep of death might rise 
strange dreams; he would not kill his uncle because lie 
caught him praying; and he was content with preaching 
to his mother. Conscience ! God ! The two words 
had not reached his heart or mind once since that awful 
night. No scruples of the Lord Hamlet obscured his view 
or delayed his action. 


30 


He had been brought up to a vague respect of religious 
things. He had even wondered where his father and 
mother might now inhabit, as one might wonder of 
the sea-drowned where their bodies might be floating ; 
but no nearer than this had heaven come to him. He had 
never felt any special influence of religion in his life. In 
what circumstances had Hamlet been brought up, that 
religious feeling should have so serious an effect upon him ? 
Doubtless the prince had been a Catholic like his recent 
acquaintance the Monsignor. Ah, he had forgotten that 
interesting man, who had told him much worth remem- 
brance. In particular his last words. . . what were those 
last words ? The effort to remember gave him mixed 
dreams of Hamlet and the Monsignor that night. 

In the morning he went off to the pool with the book of 
Hamlet and the echo of those important but forgotten 
words. The lonely water seemed to welcome him when 
he emerged from the path through the woods ; the under- 
brush rustled, living things scurried away into bush and 
wave, the weeds on the far bank set up a rustling, and 
little waves leaped on the shore. He smiled as if getting 
a friend’s morning salute, and began to talk aloud. 

“ I have brought you another unfortunate,” he said, 
“ and I am going to read his thoughts to you.” 

He opened the book and very tenderly, as if reciting a 
funeral service, murmured the words of the soliloquy on 
suicide. How solemnly sounded in that solitude the 
fateful phrase “ but that the dread of something after 
death ! ” That was indeed the rub ! After death there 
can be anything ; and were it little and slender as a spider’s 
web, it might be too much for the sleep that is supposed 
to know no waking and no dreams. After all, he thought, 
how much are men alike ; for the quandary of Hamlet 
is mine ; I know not what to do. He laid aside the book 
and gave himself to idle watching of the pool. A bird 
dipped his wing into it midway, and set a circle of 
wavelets tripping to the shore. One by one they died 
among the sedges, and there was no trace of them more. 

“ That is the thing for which I am looking,” he said ; 
“ disappearance without consequences . . . just to fade 
away as if into water or air . . . to separate on the spot 
into original elements ... to be no more what I am, 
either to myself or others . . . then no inquest, no search, 


31 


no funeral, no tears . . . nothing. And after such a 
death, perhaps, something might renew the personality in 
conditions so far from these, so different, that now and 
then would never come into contact.” 

He sighed. What a disappearance that would be. And 
at that moment the words of the Monsignor came back to 
him : 

“ If at any time you tvish to disappear , command me ” 

A thrill leaped through his dead veins, as of one rising 
from the dead, but he lay motionless observing the pool. 
Before him passed the details of that night at the tavern ; 
the portraits, the chirping cricket, the vines at the window, 
the strange theory of the priest about disappearing. He 
reviewed that theory as a judge might review a case, so 
he thought ; but in fact his mind was swinging at head- 
long speed over the possiblilities, and his pulses were 
bounding. It was possible, even in this world, to dis- 
appear more thoroughly behind the veil of life than under 
the veil of death. If one only had the will ! 

He rose brimming with exultant joy. An intoxication 
seized him that lifted him at once over all his sorrow, and 
placed him almost in that very spot wherein he stood ten 
days ago ; gay, debonair, light of heart as a boy, untouched 
by grief or the dread of grief. It was a divine madness. 
He threw off his clothes, admired his shapely body for a 
moment as he poised on the bank, and flung himself in 
headlong with a shout. He felt as he slipped through the 
water, but he did not utter the thought, that if this intox- 
ication did not last he would never leave the pool. It 
endured and increased. He swam about like a demented 
fish. On that far shore where the reeds grew he paddled 
through the mud and thrust his head among the sedges 
kissing them with laughter. In another place he reached 
up to the high bank and pulled out a bunch of ferns which 
he carried about with him. He roamed about the sandy 
bottom in one corner, and thrust his nose and his hands 
into it, laying his cheek on the smooth surface. He 
swallowed mouthfuls of the cool water, and felt that he 
tasted joy for the first time. He tired his body with 
divings, racings, leapings, and shouting. 

When he leaped ashore and flung himself in the shade 
of the wood, the intoxication had increased. So, not for 
nothing had he met the priest. That encounter, the delay 


32 


in the journey, the stay in the village, the peculiar char- 
acter of the man, his odd theory, were like elements of an 
antidote, compounded to meet that venom which the 
vicious had injected into his life. Wonderful ! He 
looked at the open hook beside him, and then rose to his 
knees, with the water dripping from his limbs. In a loud 
voice he made a profession of faith. 

“ I believe in God forever.” 


33 


CHAPTER V. 

THE DOOR IS CLOSED. 

Even Martha was startled by the change in him. She 
had hoped and prayed for it, but had not looked for it so 
soon, and did not expect blithe spirits after such despair. 
In deep joy he poured out his soul to her all the evening, 
but never mentioned deeds or names in his tragedy. 
Martha hardly thought of them. She knew from the fir&t 
that this man's soul had been nearly wrecked by some 
shocking deviltry, and that the best medicine for him was 
complete forgetfulness. Horace felt as a life-prisoner, 
suddenly set free from the loathsomest dungeon in Turk- 
estan, might feel on greeting again the day and life’s sweet 
activities. The first thought which surged in upon him 
was the glory of that life which had been his up to the 
moment when sorrow engulfed him. 

“ My God,” he cried to Martha, “ is it possible that men 
can hold such a treasure, and prize it as lightly as I did 
once.” 

He had thought almost nothing of it, had been glad to 
get rid of each period as it passed, and of many persons 
and scenes connected with childhood, youth, and man- 
hood. Now they looked to him, these despised years, per- 
sons, and scenes, like jewels set in fine gold, priceless 
jewels of human love fixed forever in the adamant of God’s 
memory. They were his no more. Happily God would 
not forget them, but would treasure them, and reward 
time and place and human love according to their deserv- 
ing. He was full of scorn for himself, who could take and 
enjoy so much of happiness with no thought of its value, 
and no other acknowledgment than the formal and hasty 
word of thanks, as each soul laid its offering of love and 
service at his feet. 

“ You’re no worse than the rest of us,” said Martha. 
“ I did’nt know, and very few of my friends ever seemed 
3 


34 


to know, what good things they had till they lost ’em. It 
may be that God would not have us put too high a price 
on ’em at first, fearin’ we’d get selfish about ’em. Then 
when they’re gone, it turns our thoughts more to heaven, 
which is the only place where we have any chance to get 
’em back.” 

When he had got over his self-scorn, the abyss of pain 
and horror out of which God had lifted him — this 
was his belief — showed itself mighty and terrible to his 
normal vision. Never would he have believed that a man 
could fall so far and so awfully, had he not been in those 
dark depths and mounted to the sun again. He had read 
of such pits as exaggerations. He had seen sorrow and 
always thought its expression too fantastic for reality. 
Looking down now into the noisome tunnel of his own 
tragedy, he could only wonder that its wretched walls and 
exit did not carry the red current of blood mingled with 
its own foul streaks. Nothing that he had done in his 
grief expressed more than a syllable of the pain he had 
endured. The only full voice to such grief would have 
been the wrecking of the world. Strange that he could 
now look calmly into this abyss, without the temptation to 
go mad. But its very ghastliness turned his thought into 
another channel. The woman who had led him into the 
pit, what of her ? Free from the tyranny of her beauty, 
he saw her with all her loveliness, merely the witch of the 
abyss, the flower and fruit of that loathsome depth, in 
whose bosom filthy things took their natural shape of 
horror, and put on beauty only to entrap the innocent of 
the upper world. Yes, he was entirely freed from her. 
Her name sounded to his ears like a name from hell, but 
it brought no paleness to his cheeks, no shock to his nerves, 
no stirring of his pulses. The loom of Penelope w r as 
broken, and forever, he hoped. 

“ I am free,” he said to Martha the next morning, after 
he had tested himself in various ways. “ The one devil 
that remained with me is gone, and I feel sure she will 
never trouble me again.” 

“It is good to be free,” said Martha, “if the thing is 
evil. I am free from all that worried me most. I am 
free from the old fear of death. But sometimes I get sad 
thinking how little we need those we thought we could 
not do without.” 


35 


<c How true that sounds, mother. There is a pity in 
it. We are not necessary to one another, though we think 
so. Every one we love dies, we lose all things as time goes 
on, and when we come to old age nothing remains of 
the past ; but just the same we enjoy what we have, and 
forget what we had. There is one thing necessary, and 
that is true life.” 

“ And where can we get that ?” said Martha. 

“ Only from God, I think,” he replied. 

She smiled her satisfaction with his thought, and he 
went off to the pool for the last time, singing in his heart 
with joy. He would have raised his voice too, but, feel- 
ing himself in the presence of a stupendous thing, he re- 
frained out of reverence. If suffering Hamlet had only 
encountered the idea of disappearing, his whole life would 
have been set right in a twinkling of the eye. The Dane 
had an inkling of the solution of his problem when in 
auguish he cried out. 

Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt, 

Thaw and resolve itself into a dew ! 

But he had not followed his thought to its natural con- 
sequence, seeing only death at the end of reasoning. 
Horace saw disappearance, and he had now to consider 
the idea of complete disappearance with all its effects upon 
him and others. What would be the effect upon himself ? 
He would vanish into thin air as far as others were con- 
cerned. Whatever of his past the present held would turn 
into ashes. There would be no further connection with it. 
An impassable void would be created across which neither 
he nor those he loved could go. He went over in his 
mind what he had to give up, and trembled before his 
chum and his father's sister, two souls that loved him. 
Death would not be more terrible. For him, no ; but 
for them ? Death would leave them his last word, look, 
sigh, his ashes, his resting-place ; disappearance would 
rob them of all knowledge, and clothe his exit with ever- 
lasting sadness. There was no help for it. Many souls 
more loving suffered a similar anguish, and survived it. 
It astonished and even appalled him, if anything could 
now appal him, that only two out of the group of hia 
close friends and near acquaintances seemed near enough 


36 


in affection and intimacy to mourn his loss. Xot one of 
twenty others would lose a dinner or a fraction of appetite 
because he had vanished so pitifully. How rarer than 
diamonds is that jewel of friendship ! 

He had thought once that a hundred friends would 
have wept bitter tears over his sorrow ; of the number 
there were left only two ! 

It was easy for him to leave the old life, now become 
so hateful ; but there was terror in putting on the neAV, 
to which he must ally himself as if born into it, like a 
tree uprooted from its native soil and planted far from its 
congenial elements in the secret, dark, sympathetic places 
of the earth. He must cut himself off more thoroughly 
than by death. The disappearance must be eternal, un- 
less death removed Sonia Westfield before circumstances 
made return practically impossible ; his experience of life 
showed that disagreeable people rarely die while the 
microbe of disagreeableness thrives in them. 

What would be the effect of his disappearance on 
Sonia and her lover ? The question brought a smile to his 
wan face. She had married his name and his money, 
and would lose both advantages. He would take his prop- 
erty into exile to the last penny. His name without his 
income would be a burden to her. His disappearance 
would cast upon her a reproach, unspoken, unseen, a 
mere mist enwrapping her fatally, but not to be dispelled. 
Her mouth would be shut tight ; no chance for inuendoes, 
lest hint might add suspicion to mystery. She would be 
forced to observe the proprieties to the letter, and the 
law would not grant her a divorce for years. In time she 
would learn that her only income was the modest revenue 
from her own small estate ; that he had taken all with 
him into darkness ; and still she would not dare to tell 
the damaging fact to her friends. She would be forced 
to keep up appearances, to spend money in a vain search 
for him, or his wealth ; suspecting much yet knowing 
nothing, miserably certain that he was living somewhere 
in luxury, and enjoying his vengeance. 

He no longer thought of vengeance. He did not desire 
it. The mills of the gods grind out vengeance enough to 
glut any appetite. By the mere exercise of his right to 
disappear he gave the gods many lashes with which to 
arm the furies against her. He was satisfied with being 


37 


beyond her reach forever. Now that he knew just what 
to do, now that with his plan had come release from de- 
pression, now that he was himself again almost, he felt 
that he could meet Sonia Westfield and act the part of a 
busy husband without being tempted to strangle her. In 
her very presence he would put in motion the machinery 
which would strip her of luxury and himself of his present 
place in the world. 

The process took about two months. The first step was 
a visit to Monsignor O’Donnell, a single visit, and the 
first result was a single letter, promptly committed to the 
flames. Then he went home with a story of illness, of a 
business enterprise which had won his fancy, of necessary 
visits to the far west ; which were all true, but not in the 
sense in which Sonia took these details. They not only 
explained his absence, but also excused the oddity of his 
present behavior. He hardly knew how he behaved with 
her. He did not act, nor lose self-confidence. He had 
no desire to harm her. He was simply indifferent, as if 
from sickness. As the circumstances fell in with her in- 
clinations, though she could not help noticing his new 
habits and peculiarities, she made no protest and very 
little comment. He saw her rarely, and in time carried 
himself with a sardonic good humor as surprising to him 
as inexplicable to her. She seemed as far from him as if 
she had suddenly turned Eskimo. Once or twice a sense 
of loathing invaded him, a flame of hatred blazed up, soon 
suppressed. He was complete master of himself, and his 
reward was that he could be her judge, with the in- 
difference of a dignitary of the law. The disposal of his 
property was accomplished with perfect secrecy, his wife 
consenting on the plea of a better investment. 

So the two months came to an end in peace, and he 
stood at last before that door which he himself had opened 
into the new future. Once closed no other hand but his 
could open it. A time might come when even to his hand 
the hinge would not respond. Two persons knew his 
secret in part, the Monsignor and a woman ; but they 
knew nothing more than that he did not belong to them 
from the beginning, and more than that they would never 
know, if he carried out his plan of disappearance perfectly. 
Whatever the result, he felt now that the crisis of his life 
had come. 


38 


At the last moment, however, doubts worried him about 
thus cutting himself off from his past so utterly, and 
adopting another personality. Some deep-lying repug- 
nance stirred him against the double process. AVould it 
not be better to live under his own name in remote coun- 
tries, and thus be ready, if fate allowed, to return home 
at the proper time ? Perhaps. In that case he must be 
prepared for her pursuit, her letters, her chicanery, which 
he could not bear. Her safety and his own, if the stain 
of blood was to be kept off the name of Endicott, demanded 
the absolute cessation of all relationship between them. 
Yet that did not contain the whole reason. Lurking 
somewhere in those dark depths of the soul, where the 
lead never penetrates, he found tl^e thought of vengeance. 
After all he did wish to punish her and to see her punish- 
ment. He had thought to leave all to the gods, but 
feared the gods would not do all their duty. If they 
needed spurring, he would be near to provide new whips 
and fresher scorpions. He shook off hesitation when the 
last day of his old life came, and made his farewells with 
decision. A letter to his aunt and to his friend, bidding 
each find no wonder and no worry about him in the events 
of the next month, and lose no time in searching for 
him ; a quiet talk with old Martha on her little verandah; 
a visit to the pool on a soft August night ; and an evening 
spent alone in his father’s house ; these were his leave- 
takings. 

They would never find a place in his life again, and he 
would never dare to return to them ; since the return of 
the criminal over the path by which he escaped into 
secrecy gave him into the hands of his pursuers. The old 
house had become the property of strangers. The offset 
to this grief was the fact that Sonia would never dishonor 
it again with her presence. Just now dabbling in her 
sins down by the summer sea, she was probably reading 
the letter which he had sent her about business in Wiscon- 
sin. Later a second letter would bear her the sentence of 
a living death. The upright judge had made her the 
executioner. What a long tragedy that would be ! He 
thought of it as he wandered about the lovely rooms of 
his old home ; what long days of doubt before certainty 
would come ; what horror when bit by bit the scheme of 
his vengeance unfolded : what vain, bitter, furious strug- 


39 


gling to find and devour him ; and then the miserable end- 
ing when time had proved his disappearance absolute and 
perfect ! 

At midnight, after a pilgrimage to every loved spot in 
the household shrine, he slipped away unseen and struck 
out on foot over the fields for a distant railway station. 
For two months he lived here and there in California, 
while his beard grew and his thoughts devoured him. 
Then one evening he stepped somewhat feebly from the 
train in New York, crawled into a cab, and drove to 
No. 127 Mulberry Street. The cabman helped him up 
the steps and handed him in the door to a brisk old 
woman, who must have been an actress in her day ; for 
she gave a screech at the sight of him, and threw her 
arms about him crying out, so that the cabman heard, 
‘‘Artie, alanna, back from the dead, back from the dead, 
acushla machree.” Then the door closed, and Arthur 
Dillon was alone with his mother ; Arthur Dillon who had 
run away to California ten years before, and died there, 
it was supposed ; but he had not died, for behold him 
returned to his mother miraculously. She knew him in 
spite of the changes, in spite of thin face, wild eyes, and 
strong beard. The mother-love is not to be deceived by 
the disguise of time. So Anne Dillon hugged her Arthur 
with a fervor that surprised him, and wept copious tears ; 
thinking more of the boy that might have come back to 
her than of this stranger. He lay in his lonely, unknown 
grave, and the caresses meant for him had been bought 
by another. 


40 


CHAPTER VI. 

ANOTHER MAN’S SHOES. 

As he laid aside his outer garments, Horace felt the joy 
of the exhausted sailor, entering port after a dangerous 
voyage. He was in another man’s shoes ; would they fit 
him ? He accepted the new house and the new mother 
with scarcely a comment. Mrs. Anne Dillon knew him 
only as a respectable young man of wealth, whom mis- 
fortune had driven into hiding. His name and his history 
she might never learn. So Monsignor had arranged it. 
In return for a mother’s care and name she was to receive 
a handsome income. A slim and well-fashioned woman, 
dignified, severe of feature, her light hair and fair com- 
plexion took away ten from her fifty years ; a brisk man- 
ner and a low voice matched her sharp blue eyes and calm 
face ; her speech had a slight brogue ; fate had ordained 
that an Endicott should be Irish in his new environment. 
As she flew about getting ready a little supper, he dozed 
in the rocker, thinking of that dear mother who had 
illumined his youth like a vision, beautiful, refined, ever 
delightful ; then of old Martha, rough, plain, and sad, 
but with the spirit and wit of the true mother, to cherish 
the sorrowful. In love for the child these mothers were 
all alike. He felt at home, and admired the quickness 
and skill with which Anne Dillon took up her new office. 
He noted everything, even his own shifting emotions. 
This was one phase of the melancholy change in him : the 
man he had cast off rarely saw more than pleased him, 
but the new Arthur Dillon had an alert eye for trifles. 

“ Son dear,” said his mother, when they sat down to 
tea, “ we’ll have the evenin’ to ourselves, because I didn’t 
tell a soul what time you were cornin’, though of course 
they all knew it, for I couldn’t keep back such good news ; 
that after all of us thinkin’ you dead, you should turn 
out to be alive an’ well, thank God. So we can spend the 


41 


evenin' decidin' jist what to do an' say to-morrow. The 
first thing in the mornin' Louis Everard will be over to 
see you. Since he heard of your cornin', he's been jist 
wild, for he was your favorite ; you taught him to swim, 
an' to play ball, an’ to skate, an' carried him around with 
you, though he's six years younger than you. He's goin' 
to be a priest in time with the blessin' o' God. Then his 
mother an' sister, perhaps Sister Mary Magdalen, too ; an' 
your uncle Dan Dillon, on your father's side, he's the only 
relative you have. My folks are all dead. He's a sena- 
tor, an' a leader in Tammany Hall, an' he’ll be proud of 
you. You were very fond of him, because he was a prize- 
fighter in his day, though I never thought much of that, 
an' was glad when he left the business for politics." 

“ And how am I to know all these people, mother ? " 

“ You've come home sick," she said placidly, “ an' you'll 
stay in bed for the next week, or a month if you like. As 
each one comes I'll let you know jist who they are. You 
needn't talk any more than you like, an' any mistakes will 
be excused, you've been away so long, an' come home 
so sick." 

They smiled frankly at each other, and after tea she 
showed him his room, a plain chamber with sacred pic- 
tures on the walls and a photograph of Arthur Dillon over 
the bureau. 

“ Jist as you left it ten years ago," she said with a sob. 
“ An' your picture as you looked a month before you went 
away." 

The portrait showed a good-looking and pugnacious boy 
of sixteen, dark-haired and large-eyed like himself ; but 
the likeness between the new and the old Arthur was not 
striking ; yet any one who wished or thought to find a re- 
semblance might have succeeded. As to disposition, 
Horace Endicott would not have deserted his mother 
under any temptation. 

“ What sort of a boy was — was I at that age, mother ? " 

“ The best in the world," she answered mildly but 
promptly, feeling the doubt in the question. “ An' no one 
was able to understan' why you ran away as you did. 
I wonder now my heart didn't break over it. The neigh- 
bors jist adored you : the best dancer an' singer, the 
gayest boy in the parish, an' the Monsignor thought there 
was no other like you." 


42 


“ I have forgotten how to sing an’ dance, mother. I 
think these accomplishments can be easily learned again. 
Does the Monsignor still hold his interest in me ? ” 

“ More than ever, I think, but he’s a quiet man that 
says little when he means a good deal.” 

At nine o’clock an old woman came in with an evening 
paper, and gave a cry of joy at sight of him. Having 
been instructed between the opening of the outer door 
and the woman’s appearance, Arthur took the old lady in 
his arms and kissed her. She was the servant of the 
house, more companion than servant, wrinkled like an 
autumn leaf that has felt the heat, but blithe and active. 

“ So you knew me, Judy, in spite of the whiskers and 
the long absence ? ” 

“ Knew you, is it ? ” cried Judy, laughing, and crying, 
and talking at once, in a way quite wonderful to one 
who had never witnessed this feat. “ An’ why shouldn’t 
I know you ? Didn’t I hould ye in me own two arrums 
the night you were born ? An’ was there a day afther 
that I didn’t have something to do wid ye ? Oh, ye little 
spalpeen, to give us all the fright ye did, runnin’ away to 
Calif orny. Sow if ye had run away to Ireland, there’d 
be some sinse in it. Musha thin, but it was fond o’ goold 
ye wor, an’ ye hardly sixteen. I hope ye brought a pile 
of it back wid ye.” 

She rattled on in her joy until weariness took them all 
at the same moment, and they withdrew to bed. He 
was awakened in the morning by a cautious whispering in 
the room outside his door. 

“ Pon me sowl,” Judy was saying angrily, “ ye take it 
like anny ould Yankee. Ye’re as dull as if ’twas his 
body on’y, an’ not body an’ sowl together, that kem home 
to ye. Jist like ould Mrs. Wilcox the night her son died, 
sittin’ in her room, an’ crowshayin’ away, whin a dacint 
woman ’ud be howlin’ wid sorra like a banshee.” 

“ To tell the truth,” Anne replied, “ I can’t quite for- 
give him for the way he left me, an’ it’s so long since I saw 
him, Judy, an’ lie’s so thin an’ miserable lookin’, that I 
feel as if he was only a fairy child.” 

“ Mother, you’re talking too loud to your neighbors,” 
he cried out then in a cheery and familiar voice, for he 
saw at once the necessity of removing the very natural 
constraint indicated by his mother’s words ; and there was 


43 


a sudden cry from the women, Judy flying to the kitchen 
while Anne came to his door. 

“ It's true the walls have ears/' she said with a kindly 
smile. “But you and I, son, will have to make many’s 
the explanation of that kind before you are well settled in 
your old home.” 

He arose for breakfast with the satisfaction of having 
enjoyed a perfect sleep, and with a delightful interest in 
what the day had in store for him. Judy bantered and 
petted him. His mother carried him over difficult al- 
lusions in her speech. The sun looked in on him pleas- 
antly, he took a sniff of air from a brickish garden, saw 
the brown walls of the cathedral not far away, and then 
went back to bed. A sudden and overpowering weakness 
came upon him which made the bed agreeable. Here he 
was to receive such friends as would call upon him that 
day. Anne Dillon looked somewhat anxious over the 
ordeal, and his own interest grew sharper each moment, 
until the street-door at last opened with decision, and his 
mother whispered quickly : 

“ Louis Everard ! Make much of him.” 

She went out to check the brisk and excited student 
who wished to enter with a shout, warning him that the 
returned wanderer was a sick man. There was silence 
for a moment, and then the young fellow appeared in the 
doorway. 

“ Will you have a fit if I come any nearer ? ” he said 
roguishly. 

In the soft, clear light from the window Arthur saw a 
slim, manly figure, a lovable face lighted by keen blue 
eyes, a white and frank forehead crowned by light hair, 
and an expression of face that won him on the instant. 
This was his chum, whom he had loved, and trained, and 
tyrannized over long ago. For the first time since his 
sorrow he felt the inrushing need of love's sympathy, and 
with tear-dimmed eyes he mutely held out his arms. 
Louis flew into the proffered embrace, and kissed him 
twice with the ardor of a boy. The affectionate touch of 
his lips quite unmanned Arthur, who was silent while the 
young fellow sat on the side of the bed with one arm about 
him, and began to ply him with questions. 

“ Tell me first of all/' he said, “ how you had the heart 
to do it, to run away from so many that loved the ground 


u 


you walked on. I cried my eyes out night after night . . . 
and your poor mother . . . and indeed all of us . . . how could 
you do it ? What had we done ? ” 

“ Drop it,” said Arthur. “ At that time I could have 
done anything. It was pure thoughtlessness, regretted 
many a time since. I did it, and there’s the end of it, 
except that I am suffering now and must suffer more for 
the folly.” 

“ One thing, remember,” said Louis, “you must let 
them all see that your heart is in the right place. Fm not 
going to tell you all that was said about you. But you 
must let every one see that you are as good as when you 
left us.” 

“ That would be too little, dear heart. Any man that 
has been through my experiences and did not show him- 
self ten times better than ever he was before, ought to 
stay in the desert.” 

“That sounds like you,” said Louis, gently pulling his 
beard. 

“Tell me, partner,” said Arthur lightly, “would you 
recognize me with whiskers ? ” 

“ Never. There is nothing about you that reminds me 
of that boy who ran away. Just think, it’s ten years, and 
how we all change in ten years. But say, what adventures 
you must have had ! I’ve got to hear the whole story, 
mind, from the first chapter to the last. You are to come 
over to the house two nights in a week, to the old room, 
you remember, and unfold the secrets of ten years. 
Haven’t you had a lot of them ?” 

“ A car-load, and of every kind. In the mines and 
forests, on the desert, lost in the mountains, hunting and 
fishing and prospecting ; not to mention love adventures 
of the tenderest sort. I feel pleasant to think of telling 
you my latest adventures in the old room, where I used to 
curl you up with fright ” 

“ Over stories of witches and fairies,” cried Louis, 
“ when I would crawl up your back as we lay in bed, and 
shiver while I beggedyou to go on. And the room is just 
the same, for all the new things have the old pattern. I 
felt you would come back some day with a bag of real 
stories to be told in the same dear old place.” 

“ Real enough surely,” said Arthur with a deep sigh, 
“ and I hope they may not tire you in the telling. Mother 


45 

. . . tells me that you are going to be a priest. Is that 
true ?” 

“ As far as I can see now, yes. But one is never certain. ” 

“ Then I hope you will be one of the Monsignor’s stamp. 
That man is surely a man of God.” 

“ Not a doubt of it,” said Louis, taking his hat to go. 

“ One thing,” said Arthur as he took his hand and de- 
tained him. He was hungry for loving intimacy with this 
fine lad, and stammered in his words. “ We are to be the 
same . . . brothers . . . that we were long ago ! ” 

“ That’s for you to say, old man,” replied Louis, who 
was pleased and even flattered, and petted Arthur’s hands. 
“ I always had to do as you said, and was glad to be your 
slave. I have been the faithful one all these years. It is 
your turn now.” 

After that Arthur cared little who came to see him. He 
was no longer alone. This youth loved him with the love 
of fidelity and gratitude, to which he had no claim except 
by adoption from Mrs. Anne Dillon ; but it warmed his 
heart and cheered his spirit so much that he did not dis- 
cuss with himself the propriety of owning and enjoying 
it. He looked with delight on Louis’ mother when she 
came later in the day, and welcomed him as a mother would 
a dear son. A nun accompanied her, whose costume gave 
him great surprise and some irritation. She was a frank- 
faced but homely woman, who wore her religious habit 
with distinction. Arthur felt as if he were in a chapel 
while she sat by him and studied his face. His mother did 
the talking for him, compared his features with the por- 
trait on the wall, and recalled the mischievous pranks of 
his wild boyhood, indirectly giving him much information 
as to his former relationships with the visitors. Mrs. 
Everard had been fond of him, and Sister Mary Magdalen 
had prepared him for his first communion. This fact the 
nun emphasized by whispering to him as she was about to 
leave : 

“ I hope you have not neglected your religious duties ?” 

“ Monsignor will tell you,” he said with an amused smile. 
He found no great difficulty in dealing with the visitors 
that came and went during the first week. Thanks to his 
mother’s tactful management no hitches occurred more 
serious than the real Arthur Dillon might have encoun- 
tered after a long absence. The sick man learned very 


46 


speedily how high his uncle stood in the city, for the last 
polite inquiry of each visitor was whether the Senator had 
called to welcome his nephew. In the narrow world of the 
Endicotts the average mind had not strength enough to 
conceive of a personality which embraced in itself a prize- 
fighter and a state senator. The terms were contradictory. 
True, Nero had been actor and gladiator, and the inference 
was just that an American might achieve equal distinction ; 
but the Endicott mind refused to consider such an in- 
ference. Arthur Dillon no longer found anything absurd 
or impossible. The surprises of his new position charmed 
him. Three months earlier and the wildest libeller could 
not have accused him of an uncle lower in rank than a 
governor of the state. Sonorous names, senator and glad- 
iator, brimful of the ferocity and dignity of old Rome ! 
near as they had been in the days of Caesar, one would 
have thought the march of civilization might have widened 
the interval. Here was a rogue’s march indeed ! Judy 
gave the Senator a remarkable character. 

“ The Senator, is it ? ” said she when asked for an opin- 
ion. “ Divil a finer man from here to himself ! There 
isn’t a sowl in the city that doesn’t bless his name. He’s 
a great man bekase he was born so. He began life with 
his two fishts, thumpin’ other boys wid the gloves, as they 
call ’em. Thin he wint to the war, an’ began fightin’ wid 
powdher an’ guns, so they med him a colonel. Thin he 
kem home an’ wint fightin’ the boss o’ the town, so they 
med him a senator. It was all fightin’ wid him, an’ they 
say he’s at it yet, though he luksso pleasant all the time, 
he must find it healthy. I don’t suppose thim he’s fightin’ 
wid finds it as agreeable. Some wan must git the batin’, 
ye know. There’s jist the differ betune men. I’ve been 
usin’ me fists all me life, beltin’ the washboord, an’ I’m 
nowhere yet. An’ Tommy Kilbride the baker, he’s been 
poundin’ at the dough for thirty years, an’ he’s no better 
off than I am. But me noble Dan Dillon that began wid 
punchin’ the heads of his neighbors, see where he is to- 
day. But he’s worthy of it, an’ I’d be the last to begrudge 
him his luck.” 

In the Endicott circle the appearance of a senator as 
great as Sumner had not been an event to flutter the 
heart, though the honor was unquestioned ; but never in 
his life had the young man felt a keener interest than in 


47 


the visit of his new uncle. He came at last, a splendid 
figure, too ample in outline and too rich in color for the 
simple room. The first impression he made was that of 
the man. The powerful and subtle essence of the man 
breathed from him. His face and figure had that bold- 
ness of line and depth of color which rightly belong to 
the well-bred peasant. He was well dressed, and hand- 
some, with eyes as soft and bright as a Spaniard’s. 
Arthur was overcome with delight. In Louis he had 
found sympathy and love, and in the Senator he felt sure 
that he would find ideal strength and ideal manhood, 
things for the weak to lean upon. The young patrician 
seized his uncle’s hand and pressed it hard between his 
own. At this affectionate greeting the Senator’s voice 
failed him, and he had difficulty in keeping back his 
tears. 

“ If your father were only here now, God rest his soul 
this day,” he said. “ How he loved you. Often an’ 
often he said to me that his happiness would be complete 
if he lived to see you a man. He died, but I live to see it, 
an’ to welcome you back to your own. The Dillons are 
dying out. You’re the only one of our family with the 
family name. What’s the use o’ tellin’ you how glad we 
are that Californy didn’t swallow you up forever.” 

Arthur thanked him fervently, and complimented him 
on his political honors. The Senator beamed with the 
delight of a man who finds the value of honors in the joy 
which they give his friends. 

“ Yes, I’ve mounted, Artie, an’ I came by everything 
I have honest. You’ll not be ashamed of me, boy, when 
you see where I stand outside. But there’s one thing 
about politics very hard, the enemy don’t spare you. If 
you were to believe all that’s said of me by opponents I’m 
afraid you wouldn’t shake hands with me in public.” 

“1 suppose they bring up the prize-fighting,” said 
Arthur. “ You ought to have told them that no one need 
be ashamed to do what many a Roman emperor did.” 

“ Ah,” cried the Senator, “ there’s where a man feels 
the loss of an education. I never knew the emperors did 
any ring business. What a sockdologer it would have 
been to compare myself with the Roman emperors.” 

“ Then you’ve done with fighting, uncle ?” 

There was regret in his tone, for lie felt the situation 


48 


would have been improved if the Senator were still before 
the public as a gladiator. 

“ I see you ain’t lost none o’ your old time deviltry, 
Artie,” he replied good-naturedly. “ I gave that up long 
ago, an’ lots o’ things with it. Butgivin’ up has nothin’ 
to do with politics, an’ regular all my sins are retailed in 
the papers. But one thing they can never say : that I was 
a liar or a thief. An’ they can’t say that I ever broke my 
word, or broke faith with the people that elected me, or 
did anything that was not becoming in a senator. I re- 
spect that position an’ the honor for all they’re worth.” 

“ And they can never say,” added Arthur, “ that you 
were afraid of any man on earth, or that you ever hurt 
the helpless, or ever deserted a friend or a soul that was 
in need.” 

The Senator flushed at the unexpected praise and the 
sincerity of the tone. He was anxious to justify himself 
even before this sinner, because his dead brother and his 
sister-in-law had been too severe on his former occupa- 
tions to recognize the virtues which Arthur complimented. 

“ Whatever I have been,” said the Senator, pressing the 
hand which still held his, “ I was never less than a square 
man.” 

“ That’s easy to believe, uncle, and I’ll willingly punch 
the head of the first man that denies it.” 

“ Same old spirit,” said the delighted Senator. “ Why, 
you little rogue, d’ye remember when you used to go 
round gettin’ all the pictures o’ me in me fightin’ days, 
an’ makin’ your dear mother mad by threatenin’ to go 
into the ring yourself ? Why, you had your own fightin’ 
gear, gloves an’ clubs an’ all that, an’ you trained young 
Everard in the business, till his old . . . his father put a 
head . . . put a stop to it.” 

“ Fine boy, that Louis, but I never thought he’d turn 
to the Church.” 

“ He never had anythin’ else in him,” said the Senator 
earnestly. “ It was born in him as fightin’ an’ general 
wildness was born in you an’ me. Look into his face an’ 
you’ll see it. Fine ? The boy hasn’t his like in the city 
or the land. I’ll back him for any sum — I’ll stand to it 
that he’ll be archbishop some day.” 

“Which I’ll never be,” said Arthur with a grin. 

“Every man in his place, Artie. I’ve brought you 


49 


yours, if you want to take it. How would politics in 
New York suit you ?” 

“ I’m ripe for anything with fun in it.” 

“ Then you won’t find fault, Artie, if I ask how things 
stood with you — you see it’s this way, Artie ” 

“ Now, hold on, old man,” said Arthur. “ If you are 
going to get embarrassed in trying to do something for 
me, then I withdraw. Speak right out what you have to 
say, and leave me to make any reply that suits" me.” 

“Then, if you’ll pardon me, did you leave things in 
Californy straight an’ square, so that nothin’ could be 
said about you in the papers as to your record ? ” 

“ Straight as a die, uncle.” 

“ An’ would yon take the position of secretary to the 
chief an’ so get acquainted with everything an’ everybody?” 

“ On the spot, and thank you, if you can wait till I am 
able to move about decently.” 

“ Then it’s done, an’ I’m the proudest man in the state 
to see another Dillon enterin’ ” 

“ The ring,” said Arthur. 

“ No, the arena of politics,” corrected the Senator. “An’ 
I can tell from your talk that you have education an’ sand. 
In time we’ll make you mayor of the town.” 

When he was going after a most affectionate conversa- 
tion with his nephew the Senator made a polite sugges- 
tion to Mrs. Dillon. 

“His friends an’ my friends an’ the friends of his 
father, an’ the rank an’ file generally want to see an’ to hear 
this young man, just as the matter stands. Still more 
will they wish to give him the right hand of fellowship 
when they learn that he is about to enter on a political 
career. Now, why not save time and trouble by just 
giving a reception some day about the end of the 
month, invite the whole ga — the whole multitude, do the 
thing handsome, an’ wind it up forever ?” 

The Senator had an evident dread of his sister-in-law, 
and spoke to her with senatorial dignity. She meekly ac- 
cepted his suggestion, and humbly attended him to the 
door. His good sense had cleared the situation. Prep- 
aration for a reception would set a current going in the 
quiet house, and relieve the awkwardness of the new 
relationships ; and it would save time in the business of re- 
newing old acquaintance. They took up the work eagerly. 

4 


50 


The old house had to be refitted for the occasion, his 
mother had to replenish a scanty wardrobe, and he had 
to dress himself in the fashion proper to Arthur Dillon. 
Anne’s taste was good, inclined to rich but simple color- 
ing, and he helped her in the selection of materials, insist- 
ing on expenditures which awed and delighted her. Judy 
Haskell came in for her share of raiment, and carried out 
some dread designs on her own person with conviction. 
It was pure pleasure to help these simple souls who loved 
him. 

After a three weeks’ stay in the house he went about 
the city at his ease, and busied himself with the study and 
practise of his new personality. In secret, even from 
Louis who spent much of his leisure with him, he began 
to acquire the well-known accomplishments of the real 
Arthur Dillon, who had sung and danced his way into the 
hearts of his friends, who had been a wit for a boy, 
bubbling over with good spirits, an athlete, a manager of 
amateur minstrels, a precocious gallant among the girls, a 
fighter ever ready to defend the weak, a tireless leader in 
any enterprise, and of a bright mind, but indifferent to 
study. The part was difficult for him to play, since his 
nature was staidness itself beside the spontaneity and 
variety of Arthur Dillon : but his spirits rose in the effort, 
some feeling within responded to the dash and daring of this 
lost boy, so much loved and so deeply mourned. 

Louis helped him in preparing his wardrobe, very unlike 
anything an Endicott had ever worn. Lacking the ele- 
gance and correctness of earlier days, and of a different char- 
acter, it was in itself a disguise. He wore his hair long and 
thick in the Byronic fashion, and a curly beard shadowed 
his lower face. Standing at the glass on the afternoon of 
the reception he felt confident that Horace Endicott had 
fairly disappeared beneath the new man Dillon. His 
figure had filled out slightly, and had lost its mournful 
stoop ; his face was no longer wolfish in its leanness, and 
his color had returned, though melancholy eyes marked 
by deep circles still betrayed the sick heart. Yet the 
figure in the glass looked as unlike Horace Endicott as 
Louis Everard. He compared it with the accurate por- 
trait sent out by his pursuers through the press. Only 
the day before had the story of his mysterious disappear- 
ance been made public. For months they had sought him 


51 


quietly but vainly. It was a sign of their despair that the 
journals should have his story, his portrait, and a reward 
for his discovery. 

No man sees his face as others see it, but the difference 
between the printed portrait and the reflection of Arthur 
Dillon in the mirror was so startling that he felt humbled 
and pained, and had to remind himself that this was the 
unlikeness he so desired. The plump and muscular figure 
of Horace Endicott, dressed perfectly, posed effectively, 
expressed the self-confidence of the aristocrat. His 
smooth face was insolent with happiness and prosperity, 
with that spirit called the pride of life. But for what he 
knew of this man, he could have laughed at his self- 
sufficiency. The mirror gave back a shrunken, sickly 
figure, somewhat concealed by new garments, and the 
eyes betrayed a poor soul, cracked and seamed by grief and 
wrong ; no longer Horace Endicott, broken by sickness 
of mind and heart, and disguised by circumstance, but 
another man entirely. What a mill is sorrow, thus to 
grind up an Endicott and from the dust remold a 
Dillon ! The young aristocrat, plump, insolent, shallow, 
and self-poised, looked commonplace in his pride beside 
this broken man, who had walked through the abyss of 
hell, and nevertheless saved his soul. 

He discovered as he gazed alternately on portrait and 
mirror that a singular feeling had taken hold of him. 
Horace Endicott all at once seemed remote, like a close 
friend swallowed and obliterated years ago by the sea ; 
while within himself, whoever he might be, some one 
seemed struggling for release, or expression, or dominion. 
He interpreted it promptly. Outwardly, he was living 
the life of Arthur Dillon, and inwardly that Arthur was 
making war on Horace Endicott, taking possession as an 
enemy seizes a stubborn land, reaching out for those re- 
mote citadels wherein the essence of personality resides. 
He did not object. He was rather pleased, though he 
shivered with a not unwelcome dread. 

The reception turned out a marvelous affair for him who 
had always been bored by such ceremonies. His mother, 
resplendent in a silk dress of changeable hue, seemed to 
walk on air. Mrs. Everard and her daughter Mona as- 
sisted Anne in receiving the guests. The elder women 
he knew were Irish peasants, who in childhood had run 


52 


barefoot to school on a breakfast of oatmeal porridge, and 
had since done their own washing and baking for a time. 
Only a practised eye could have distinguished them from 
their sisters born in the purple. Mona was a beauty, who 
earned her own living as a teacher, and had the little vir- 
tues of the profession well marked ; truly a daughter of 
the gods, tall for a woman, with a mocking face all sparkle 
and bloom, small eyes that flashed like gems, a sharp 
tongue, and a head of silken hair, now known as the Titian 
red, but at that time despised by all except artists and 
herself. She was a witch, an enchantress, who thought 
no man as good as her brother, and showed other men 
only the regard which irritates them. And Arthur loved 
her and her mother because they belonged to Louis. 

“I don’t know how you’ll like the arrangements,” 
Louis said to him, when all things were ready. “This 
is not a society affair. It’s an affair of the clan. The 
Dillons and their friends have a right to attend. So you 
must be prepared for hodcarriers as well as aristocrats.” 

At three o’clock the house and the garden were thrown 
open to the stream of guests. Arthur gazed in wonder. 
First came old men and women of all conditions, laborers, 
servants, small shopkeepers, who had known his father 
and been neighbors and clients for years. Dressed in 
their best, and joyful over his return to life and home 
and friends, they wrung his hands, wept over him, and 
blessed him until their warm delight and sincerity nearly 
overcame him, who had never known the deep love of the 
humble for the head of the clan. The Senator was their 
benefactor, their bulwark and their glory ; but Arthur 
was the heir, the hope of the promising future. They 
went through the ceremony of felicitation and congratu- 
lation, chatted for a while, and then took their leave as 
calmly and properly as the dames and gallants of a court ; 
and one and all bowed to the earth with moist and de- 
lighted eyes before the Everards. 

“ How like a queen she looks,” they said of the mother. 

“The blessin’ o’ God on him,” they said of Louis, “for 
priest is written all over him, an’ how could he help it 
wid such a mother.” 

“ She’s fit for a king,” they said of Mona. “Wirra, an’ 
to think she’d look at a plain man like Doyle Grahame.” 

But of Anne Dillon and her son they said nothing, so 


63 


much were they overcome by surprise at the splendor of 
the mother and the son, and the beauty of the old house 
made over new. After dark the Senator arrived, which 
was the signal fora change in the character of the guests. 

“ You’ll get the aristocracy now, the high Irish, ” said 
Louis. 

Arthur recognized it by its airs, its superciliousness, 
and several other bad qualities. It was a budding aris- 
tocracy at the ugliest moment of its development ; city 
officials and their families, lawyers, merchants, physicians, 
journalists, clever and green and bibulous, who ran in 
with a grin and ran out with a witticism, out of respect 
for the chief, and who were abashed and surprised at the 
superior insolence of the returned Dillon. Reminded 
of the story that he had returned a wealthy man, many 
of them lingered. With these visitors however came the 
pillars of Irish society, solid men and dignified women, 
whom the Senator introduced as they passed. There 
were three emphatic moments which impressed Arthur 
Dillon. A hush fell upon the chattering crowd one 
instant, and people made way for Monsignor O’Donnell, 
who looked very gorgeousto Arthur in his purple-trimmed 
soutane, and purple cloak falling over his broad shoulders. 
The politicians bent low, the flippant grew' serious, the 
faithful few became reverent. A successful leader was 
passing, and they struggled to touch his garments. 
Arthur’s heart swelled at the silent tribute, for he loved 
this man. 

“His little finger,” said the Senator in a whisper, “is 
worth more to them than my whole body.” 

A second time this wave of feeling invaded the crowd, 
when a strong-faced, quiet-mannered man entered the 
room, and paid his respects to the Dillons. Again the 
lane was made, and hearts fluttered and many hands were 
outstretched in greeting to the political leader, Hon. John 
Sullivan, the head of Tammany, the passing idol of the 
hour, to whom Arthur was soon to be private secretary. 
He would have left at once but that the Senator whispered 
something in his ear ; and presently the two went into 
the hall to receive the third personage of the evening, and 
came back with him, deeply impressed by the honor of 
his presence. He was a short, stocky man, of a military 
bearing, with a face so strongly marked as to indicate a 


54 


certain ferocity of temperament ; his deep and sparkling 
eyes had eyebrows aslant after the fashion of Mephisto ; 
the expression a little cynical, all determination, but at 
that moment good-natured. The assembly fell into an 
ecstasy at the sight and the touch of their hero, for no 
one failed to recognize the dashing General Sheridan. 
They needed only a slight excuse to fall at his feet and 
adore him. 

Arthur was impressed indeed, but his mother had 
fallen into a state of heavenly trance over the greatness 
which had honored their festival. She recovered only 
when the celebrities had departed and the stream of guests 
had come to an end. Then came a dance in the garden 
for the young people, and the school-friends of Arthur 
Dillon made demands upon him for the entertainment of 
which his boyhood had given such promise ; so he sang 
his songs with verve and success, and danced strange 
dances with graceful foot, until the common voice declared 
that he had changed only in appearance, which was natural, 
and had kept the promise of his boyhood for gayety of 
spirits, sweet singing, and fine dancing. 

“ I feel more than ever to-night,” said Louis at parting, 
“ that all of you has come home.” 

Reviewing the events of the day in his own room after 
midnight, he felt like an actor whose first appearance has 
been a success. None of the guests seemed to have any 
doubt of his personality, or to feel any surprise at his 
appearance. For them Arthur Dillon had come home 
again after an adventurous life, and changes were accepted 
as the natural result of growth. They took him to their 
heart without question. He was loved. What Horace 
Endicott could not command with all his wealth, the love 
of his own kin, a poor, broken adventurer, Arthur Dillon, 
enjoyed in plenty. Well, thank God for the good fortune 
which followed so unexpectedly his exit from the past. 
He had a secure place in tender hearts for the first time 
since father and mother died. What is life without love 
and loving ? What are love and loving without God ? 
He could say again, as on the shore of the little pool, I 
believe in God forever. 


55 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE DILLON" CLAN. 

After the reception Arthur Dillon fell easily into the 
good graces of the clan, and found his place quite nat- 
urally ; but like the suspicious intruder his ears and eyes 
remained wide open to catch the general sentiment about 
himself, and the varying opinions as to his manners and 
character. He began to perceive by degrees the magni- 
tude of the task which he had imposed upon himself ; 
the act of disappearing was but a trifle compared with 
the relationships crowding upon him in his new environ- 
ment. He would be forced to maintain them all with 
some likeness to the method which would have come 
naturally to the real Dillon. The clan made it easy for 
him. Since allowance had to be conceded to his sickly 
condition, they formed no decisive opinions about him, 
accepting pleasantly, until health and humor would urge 
him to speak of his own accord, Anne's cloudy story of 
his adventures, of luck in the mines, and of excuses for 
his long silence. All observed the new element in his dis- 
position ; the boy who had been too heedless and head- 
long to notice anything but what pleased him, now saw 
everything ; and kept at the same time a careful reserve 
about his past and present experiences, which impressed 
his friends and filled Judy Haskell with dread. 

“Tommy Higgins," she said, to Anne in an interval of 
housework, “ kern home from Texas pritty much the same, 
with a face an him as long as yer arm, an' his mouth shut 
up like an old door. Even himself cudn't open it. He 
spint money free, an' av coorse that talked for him. But 
wan day, whin his mother was thryin' an a velvet sack he 
bought for her, an’ fightin' him bekase there was no fur 
collar to id, in walked his wife an' three childher to him 
an' her, an' shtayed wid her ever afther. Begob, she 
never said another word about fur collars, an' she never 


56 


got another velvet sack till she died. Tommy had money, 
enough to kape them all decent, bud not enough for velvet 
and silk an’ joolry. From that minnit he got back his 
tongue, an* he talked himself almost to death about what he 
didn’t do, an’ what he did do in Californy. So they med 
him a tax-collecthor an’ a shtump-speaker right away, an' 
that saved his neighbors from dyin’ o’ fatague lishtenin’ 
to his lies. Take care, Anne Dillon, that this b’y o’ yours 
hastn’t a wife somewhere.” 

Anne was in the precise attitude of old Mrs. Higgins 
when her son’s wife arrived, fitting a winter cloak to her 
trim figure. At the sudden suggestion she sat down 
overcome. 

“ Oh, God forgive you, Judy,” said she, “ even to men- 
tion such a thing. I forbid you ever to speak of it again. 
I don’t care what woman came in the door, I’d turn her 
out like a thramp. He’s mine, I’ve been widout him ten 
years, and I’m going to hold him now against every 
schemin’ woman in the world.” 

“ Faith,” said Judy, “ I don’t want to see another 
woman in the house anny more than yerself. I’m on’y 
warnin’ yez. It ’ud jist break my heart to lose the grand- 
her he’s afther puttin’ on yez.” 

The two women looked about them with mournful 
admiration. The house, perfect in its furnishings, de- 
lighted the womanly taste. In Anne’s wardrobe hung 
such a collection of millinery, dresses, ornaments, that 
the mere thought of losing it saddened their hearts. 
And the loss of that future which Anne Dillon had seen 
in her own day-dreams . . . she turned savagely on 
Judy. 

“ You were born wid an evil eye, Judy Haskell,” cried 
she, “ to see things no wan but you would ever think of. 
Never mention them again.” 

“ Lemme tell ye thin that there’s others who have some- 
thin’ to say besides meself. If they’re in a wondher over 
Artie, they’re in a greater wondher over Artie’s mother, 
buyin’ silks, an’ satins, an’ jools like an acthress, an’ 
dhressin’ as gay as a greenhorn jist over from Ireland.” 

“ They’re jealous, an’ I’m goin’ to make them more so,” 
said Anne with a gleeful laugh, as she flung away care and 
turned to the mirror. For the first time since her youth 
she had become a scandal to her friends. 


57 


J udy kept Arthur well informed of the general feeling 
and the common opinion, and he took pains not only to 
soothe his mother’s fright but also to explain the little 
matters which irritated her friends. Mrs. Everard did 
not regard the change in Anne with complacency. 

“ Arthur is changed for the better, but his mother for 
the worse,’’ she said to Judy, certain that the old lady 
would retail it to her mistress. “ A woman of fifty, that 
always dressed in dark colors, sensibly, to take all at once 
to red, and yellow, and blue, and to order bonnets like 
the Empress Eugenie’s . . . well, one can’t call her 
crazy, but she’s on the way.” 

“ She has the money,” sighed Mona, who had none. 

“ Sure she always had that kind of taste,” said Judy in 
defence, “ an’ whin her eyes was blue an’ her hair yalla, 
I dunno but high colors wint well enough. Her father 
always dhressed her well. Anyhow she’s goin’ to make 
up for all the years she had to dhress like an undertaker. 
Yistherday it was a gran’ opery-cloak, as soon as Artie 
tould her he had taken four opery sates for the season.” 

The ladies gasped, and Mona clapped her hands at the 
prospect of unlimited opera, for Anne had always been 
kind to her in such matters. 

“ But all that’s nawthin’, ” Judy went on demurely, 
“ to what’s cornin’ next week. It’s a secret o’ coorse, an’ 
I wudn’t have vez mintion it for the world, though yez’ll 
hear it soon enough. Micksheen has a new cage all silver 
an’ goold, an’ Artie says he has a piddygree, which manes 
that they kep’ thrack of him as far back as Adam an’ 
Eve, as they do for lords an’ ladies ; though how anny of 
’em can get bey ant Noah an’ the ark bates me. Now 
they’re puttin’ Micksheen in condition, which manes all 
sorts of nonsense, an’ plenty o’ throuble for the poor cat, 
that does be bawlin’ all over the house night an’ day wid the 
dhread of it, an’ lukkin’ up at me pitiful to save him from 
what’s cornin’. Artie has enthered his name at the polis 
headquarthers somewhere, that he’s a prize cat, an’ he’s 
to be sint in the cage to the cat show to win a prize over 
fifty thousand other cats wid piddygrees. They wanted 
me to attind on Micksheen, but I sed no, an’ so they’ve 
hired a darky in a uniform to luk after him. An’ wanst 
a day Anne is goin’ to march up to the show in a different 
dhress, an’ luk in at Micksheen.” 


58 


At this point Judy’s demureness gave way and she 
laughed till the tears came. The others could not but 
join. 

“Well, that’s the top of the hill,” said Mrs. Everard. 
“ Surely Arthur ought to know enough to stop that tom- 
foolery. If he doesn't I will, I declare.” 

Arthur however gave the affair a very different com- 
plexion when she mentioned it. 

“Micksheen is a blooded cat,” said he, “for Vander- 
velt presented it to the Senator, who gave it to mother. 
And I suggested the cat-show for two reasons : mother’s 
life has not been any too bright, and I had a big share in 
darkening it ; so I’m going to crowd as much fun into it 
as she is willing to stand. Then I want to see how Mick- 
sheen stands in the community. His looks are finer than 
his pedigree, which is very good. And I want every one 
to know that there’s nothing too good in New York for 
mother, and that she’s going to have a share in all the 
fun that’s going.” 

“ That’s just like you, and I wish you luck,” said Mary 
Everard. 

Not only did he go about explaining, and mollifying 
public sentiment himself, he also secured the services of 
Sister Mary Magdalen for the same useful end. The nun 
was a puzzle to him. Encased in her religious habit like 
a knight in armor, her face framed in the white coif 
and black veil, her hands hidden in her long sleeves, she 
seemed to him a fine automaton, with a sweet voice and 
some surprising movements ; for he could not measure 
her, nor form any impression of her, nor see a line of her 
natural disposition. Her human side appeared very 
clearly in her influence with the clan, her sincere and 
affectionate interest in himself, and her appetite for news 
in detail. Had she not made him live over again the late 
reception by her questions as to what was done, what 
everybody said, and what the ladies wore ? Unwearied 
in aiding the needy, she brought him people of all sorts 
and conditions, in whom he took not the slightest interest, 
and besought his charity for them. He gave it in ex- 
change for her good will, making her clearly understand 
that the change in his mother’s habits must not lead to 
anything like annoyance from her old friends and 
neighbors. 


59 


“ Oh, dear, 110,” she exclaimed, * 4 for annoyance would 
only remove you from our midst, and deprive us of a great 
benefactor, for I am sure you will prove to be that. May 
I introduce to you my friend, Miss Edith Conyngham ?” 

He bowed to the apparition which came forward, seized 
his hands, held them and patted them affectionately, 
despite his efforts to release them. 

“ We all seem to have known you since childhood,” 
was her apology. 

The small, dark woman, pale as a dying nun, irritated 
him. Blue glasses concealed her eyes, and an ugly cos- 
tume concealed her figure ; she came out of an obscure 
corner behind the nun, and fell back into it noiselessly, 
but her voice and manner had the smoothness of velvet. 
He looked at her hands patting his own, and found them 
very soft, white, untouched by age, and a curious con- 
trast to her gray hair. Interest touching him faintly he 
responded to her warmth, and looked closely into the blue 
glasses with a smile. Immediately the little woman sank 
back into her corner. Long after he settled the doubt 
which assailed him at that moment, if there were not sig- 
nificance in her look and words and manner. Sister Mag- 
dalen bored him ten minutes with her history. He must 
surely take an interest in her . . . great friend of his father's 
. . . and indeed of his friends . . . her whole life devoted to re- 
ligion and the poor . . . the recklessness of others had driven 
her from a convent where she had been highly esteemed 
. . . she had to be vindicated . . . her case was well on the way 
to trial . . . nothing should be left undone to make it a 
triumph. Rather dryly he promised his aid, wondering 
if he had really caught the true meaning of the little 
woman's behavior. He gave up suspicion when Judy pro- 
vided Miss Conyngham with a character. 

“ This is the way of it,” said Judy, “ an' it's aisy 
to undhershtan' . . . thin agin I dinno as it's so aisy . . . but 
annyway she was a sisther in a convent out west, an' 
widout lave or license they put her out, bekase she wudn't 
do what the head wan ordhered her to do. So now she's 
in New York, an' Sisther Mary Mag Dillon is lukkin 
afther her, an' says she must be righted if the Pope him- 
self has to do it. We all have pity an her, knowin' 
her people as we did. A smarter girl never opened a 
book in Ameriky. An' I'm her godmother.” 


60 


“ Then we must do something for her,” said the master 
kindly in compliment to Judy. After his mother and J udy 
none appealed to him like the women of the Everard home. 
The motherly grace of Mary and the youthful charm of 
beautiful Mona attracted him naturally ; from them he 
picked up stray features of Arthur Dillon’s character ; 
but that which drew him to them utterly was his love 
for Louis. Never had any boy, he believed, so profoundly 
the love of mother and sister. The sun rose and set with 
him for the Everards, and beautiful eyes deepened in 
beauty and flashed with joy when they rested on him. 
Arthur found no difficulty in learning from them the 
simple story of the lad’s childhood and youth. 

“ How did it happen,” he inquired of Mary, “ that he 
took up the idea of being a priest ? It was not in his 
mind ten years back ? ” 

“ He was the priest from his birth,” she answered 
proudly. “ Just seven months old he was when a first 
cousin of mine paid us a visit. He was a young man, 
ordained about a week, ... we had waited and prayed 
for that sight ten years ... he sang the Mass for us and 
blessed us all. It was beautiful to see, the boy we had 
known all his life, to come among us a priest, and to say 
Mass in front of Father O’Donnell — I never can call him 
Monsignor — with the sweetest voice you ever heard. W ell, 
the first thing he did when he came to my house and Louis 
was a fat, hearty baby in the cradle, was to take him in 
his arms, look into his face a little while, and then kiss 
him. And I’ll never forget the words he said.” 

Her dark eyes were moist, but a smile lighted up her 
calm face. 

“ Mary,” he said to me, “ this boy should be the first 
priest of the next generation. I’ll bless him to that end, 
and do you offer him to God. And I did. He was the 
roughest child of all mine, and showed very little of the 
spirit of piety as he grew up. But he was always the best 
boy to his own. He had the heart for us all, and never 
took his play till he was sure the house was well served. 
Nothing was said to him about being a priest. That was 
left to God. One winter he began to keep a little diary, 
and I saw in it that he was going often to Mass on week 
days, and often to confession. He was working then with 
his father in the office, since he did not care much for 


61 


school. Then the next thing I knew he came to me 
one night and put his arms about me to say that he 
wished to be a priest, to go to college, and that this very 
cousin who had blessed him in the cradle had urged him 
to make known the wish that was in him, for it seems he 
discovered what we only hoped for. And so he has been 
coming and going ever since, a blessing to the house, and 
sure I don’t know howl shall get along without him when 
he goes to the seminary next year.” 

“Nor I,” said Arthur with a start. “How can you 
ever think of giving him up ? ” 

“ That’s the first thing we have to learn,” she replied 
with a smile at his passion. “ The children all leave the 
house in time one way or another. It’s only a question 
of giving him to God’s service or to the service of another 
woman. I could never be jealous of God.” 

He laughed at this suggestion* of jealousy in a mother. 
Of course she must hate the woman who robs her of her 
son, and secures a greater love than a mother ever knew. 
The ways of nature, or God, are indeed hard to the flesh. 
He thought of this as he sat in the attic room with his 
light-hearted chum. He envied him the love and rev- 
erence of these good women, envied him that he had been 
offered to God in his infancy ; and in his envy felt a satis- 
faction that very soon these affectionate souls would soon 
have to give Louis up to Another. To him this small 
room was like a shrine, sacred, undefiled, the enclosure 
of a young creature specially called to the service of man, 
perfumed by innocence, cared for by angels, let down 
from heaven into a house on Cherry Street. Louis had 
no such fancies, but flung aside his books, shoved his chum 
into a chair, placed his feet on a stool, put a cigar in his 
mouth and lighted it for him, pulled his whiskers, and 
ordered the latest instalment of Dillon’s Dark Doings in 
Dugout. Then the legends of life in California began. 
Sometimes, after supper, a knock was heard at the door, 
and there entered two little sisters, who must hear a bear- 
story from Arthur, and kiss the big brother good-night ; 
two delicate flowers on the rough stem of life, that filled 
Horace Endicott with bitterness and joy when he gathered 
them into his embrace ; the bitterness of hate, the joy of 
escape from paternity. What softness, what beauty, 
what fragrance in the cherubs ! Trumps, their big brother 


62 


called them, but the world knew them as Marguerite and 
Constance, and they shared the human repugnance to an 
early bed. 

“You ought to be glad to go to bed,” Arthur said, 
“ when you go to sleep so fast, and dream beautiful dreams 
about angels.” 

“ But I don’t dream of angels,” said Marguerite sadly. 
“ Night before last I dreamed a big black man came out 
of a cellar, and took baby away,” casting a look of love 
at Constance in her brother’s arms. 

“ And I dreamed,” said Constance, with a queer little 
pucker of her mouth, “ that she was all on fire, in her 
dress, and ” 

Thi3 was the limit of her language, for the thought of 
her sister on fire overwhelmed the words at her command. 

“And baby woke up,” the elder continued — for she 
was a second mother to Constance, and pieced out all her 
deficiencies and did penance for her sins — “ and she said 
to mother, ‘ throw water on Marguerite to put her out.’ ” 

“What sad dreams,” Arthur said. “Tell Father 
O’Donnell about them.” 

“ She has other things to tell him,” Louis said with a 
grin. “ I have no doubt you could help her, Artie. She 
must go to confession sometime, and she has no sins to 
tell. The other day when I was setting out for confession 
she asked me not to tell all my sins to the priest, but to 
hold back a few and give them to her for her confession. 
Now you have enough to spare for that honest use, I think.” 

“ Oh, please, dear cousin Artie,” said the child, thrilling 
his heart with the touch of her tender lips on his cheek. 

“ There’s no doubt I have enough,” he cried with a 
secret groan. “ When you are ready to go, Marguerite, 
I will give you all you want.” 

The history of Arthur’s stay in California was drawn 
entirely from his travels on the Pacific slope, tedious to 
the narrator, but interesting because of the lad’s interest, 
and because of the picture which the rapt listener made. 
His study-desk near by, strewn with papers and books, 
the white bed and bookcase farther off, pictures and 
mottoes of his own selection on the white walls, a little 
altar in the depths of the dormer-window ; and the lord 
of th'e little domain in the foreground, hands on knees, 
lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes fixed and dreamy, seeing 


63 


the rich colors and varied action as soon as words conveyed 
the story to the ear ; a perfect picture of the listening boy, 
to whom experience like a wandering minstrel sings the 
glory of the future in the happenings of the past. 

Arthur invariably closed his story with a fit of sighing. 
That happy past made his present fate heavy indeed. 
Horace Endicott rose strong in him then and protested 
bitterly against Arthur Dillon as a usurper ; but sure 
there never was a gentler usurper, for he surrendered so 
willingly and promptly that Endicott fled again into his 
voluntary obscurity. Louis comforted those heavy mo- 
ments with soft word and gentle touch, pulling his beard 
lovingly, smoothing his hair, lighting for him a fresh 
cigar, asking no questions, and, when the dark humor deep- 
ened, exorcising the evil spirit with a sprinkling of holy 
water. Prayers were said together — an overpowering 
moment for the man who rarely prayed to see this faith 
and its devotion in the boy — and then to bed, where 
Louis invariably woke to the incidents of the day and re- 
tailed them for an hour to his amused ear ; and with the 
last word fell into instant and balmy sleep. Oh, this 
wonder of unconscious boyhood ! Had this sad-hearted 
man ever known that blissful state ? He lay there listen- 
ing to the soft and regular breathing of the child, who 
knew so little of life and evil. At last he fell asleep 
moaning. It was Louis who woke with a sense of fright, 
felt that his bedfellow was gone, and heard his voice at 
the other side of the room, an agonized voice that chilled 
him. 

“ To go back would be to kill her . . . but I must go back 
. . . and then the trail of blood over all ” 

Louis leaped out of bed, and lit the night-candle. 
Arthur stood beside the altar in the dormer-window, 
motionless, with pallid face and open eyes that saw nothing. 

“ Why should such a wretch live and I be suffering ? — 
she suffers too. . . but not enough . . . the child . . . oh, that 
was the worst . . . the child . . . my child ” 

The low voice gave out the words distinctly and with- 
out passion, as of one repeating what was told to him. 
Rid of fear Louis slapped him on the shoulder and shook 
him, laughing into his astonished face when sense came 
back to him. 

“ IPs like a scene, or a skene from Macbeth,” he said. 


64 


“ Say, Artie, you had better make open confession of 
your sins. Why should you want to kill her, and put the 
trail of blood over it all ? ” 

“ I said that, did I ? ” He thought a moment, then 
put his arms about Louis. They were sitting on the side 
of the bed. 

“ You must know it sometime, Louis. It is only for 
your ear now. I had a wife . . . she was worthless . . . she 
lives . . . that is all.” 

“ And your child ? yon spoke of a child ?” 

Arthur shook with a chill and wiped the sweat from his 
forehead. 

“ No/’ he groaned, “ no . . . thank God for that ... I 
had no child.” 

After a little they went back to bed, and Louis made 
light of everything with stories of his own sleep-walking 
until he fell asleep again. The candle was left burning. 
Misfortune rose and sat looking at the boy curiously. 
With the luck of the average man, he might have been 
father to a boy like this, a girl like Mona with beautiful 
hair and a golden heart, soft sweet babies like the Trumps. 
He leaned over and studied the sleeping face, so sweetly 
mournful, so like death, yet more spiritual, for the soul 
was there still. In this face the senses had lost their day- 
light influence, had withdrawn into the shadows ; and 
now the light of innocence, the light of a beautiful soul, 
the light that never was on land or sea, shone out of the 
still features. A feeling which had never touched his 
nature before took fierce possession of him, and shook him 
as a tiger shakes his prey. He had to writhe in silence, 
to beat his head with his hands, to stifle words of rage 
and hate and despair. At last exhausted he resigned him- 
self, he took the boy’s hand in his, remembering that this 
innocent heart loved him, and fell into a dreamless sleep. 

The charm and the pain of mystery hung about the new 
life, attracting him, yet baffling him at every step. He 
could not fathom or grasp the people with whom he lived 
intimately, they seemed beyond him, and yet he dared 
ask no questions, dared not go even to Monsignor for ex- 
planations. With the prelate his relations had to take 
that character which suited their individual standing. 
When etiquette allowed him to visit the rector, Mon- 
signor provided him with the philosophy of the environ- 


65 


ment, explained the difficulties, and soothed him with 
the sympathy of a generous heart acquainted with his 
calamities. 

“ It would have been better to have launched you else- 
where, ” he said, “ but I knew no other place well enough 
to get the right people. And then I have the hope that 
the necessity for this episode will not continue.” 

“ Death only will end it, Monsignor. Death for one 
or the other. It should come soon, for the charm of this 
life is overpowering me. I shall never wish to go back 
if the charm holds me. My uncle, the Senator, is about 
to place me in politics.” 

“ I knew he would launch you on that stormy sea,” Mon- 
signor answered reflectively, “ but you are not bound to 
accept the enterprise.” 

“ It will give me distraction, and I need distraction from 
this intolerable pain,” tapping his breast with a gesture 
of anguish. 

“ It will surely counter-irritate. It has entranced men 
like the Senator, and your chief ; even men like Birming- 
ham. They have the ambition which runs with great 
ability. It’s a pity that the great prizes are beyond them.” 

“ Why beyond them ? ” 

“ High office is closed to Catholics in this country.” 

“Here I run up against the mysterious again,” he 
complained. 

“ Go down into your memory,” Monsignor said after a 
little reflection, “ and recall the first feeling which ob- 
scurely stirred your heart when the ideas of Irish and 
Catholic were presented to you. See if it was not dis- 
trust, dislike, irritation, or even hate ; something dif- 
ferent from the feeling aroused by such ideas as Turk and 
atheist .” 

“ Dislike, irritation, perhaps contempt, with a hint of 
amusement,” Arthur replied thoughtfully. 

“ How came that feeling there touching people of whom 
you knew next to nothing ?” 

“Another mystery.” 

“ Let me tell you. Hatred and contempt of the Irish 
Catholic has been the mark of English history for four 
centuries, and the same feelings have become a part of 
English character. It is in the English blood, and there- 
fore it is in yours. It keeps such men as Sullivan and 
5 


66 


Birmingham out of high office, and now it will act against 
you, strangely enough.” 

“ I understand. Queer things, rum things in this world. 
I am such a mystery to myself, however, that I ought not 
be surprised at outside mysteries.” 

“I often regret that I helped you to your present enter- 
prise,” said the priest, “ on that very account. Life is 
harsh enough without adding to its harshness.” 

“ Never regret that you saved a poor fellow’s life, reason, 
fortune, family name from shame and blood,” Arthur 
answered hotly. “ I told you the consequences that were 
coming — you averted them — there’s no use to talk of 
gratitude — and through you I came to believe in God 
again, as my mother taught me. No regret, for God’s 
sake.” 

His voice broke for a moment, and he walked to the 
window. Outside he saw the gray-white walls which 
would some day be the grand cathedral. The space about 
it looked like the studio of a giant artist ; piles of marble 
scattered here and there gave the half-formed temple the 
air of a frowsy, ill-dressed child ; and the mass rising to 
the sky resembled a cloud that might suddenly melt into 
the ether. He had seen the great temples of the world, 
yet found in this humbler, but still magnificent structure 
an element of wonder. From the old world, ancient, rich 
in tradition, one expected all things ; centaurs might 
spring from its soil unnoticed. That the prosaic rocks of 
Manhattan should heave for this sublimity stirred the 
sense of admiring wonder. 

“ This is your child ? ” said Arthur abruptly. 

“I saw the foundation laid when I was a youth, great 
boulders of half-hewn rock, imbedded in cement, to en- 
dure with the ages, able to support whatever man may 
pile upon them. This building is part of my life — you 
may call it my child — for it seems to have sprung from 
me, although a greater planned it.” 

“ What a people to attempt this miracle,” said Arthur. 

“Now you have said it,” cried the priest proudly. 
“ The poor people to whom you now belong, moved by the 
spirit which raised the great shrines of Europe, are build- 
ing out of their poverty and their faith the first really 
great temple on this continent. The country waited for 
them. This temple will express more than" a desire to 


67 


have protection from bad weather, and to cover the 
preacher’s pulpit. Here you will have in stone faith, 
hope, love, sacrifice. What blessings it will pour out 
upon the city, and upon the people who built it. For 
them it will be a great glory many centuries perhaps.” 

“ I shall have my share in the work,” Arthur said with 
feeling. “ I feel that I am here to stay, and I shall be a 
stranger to no work in which my friends are engaged. 
I’ll not let the mysteries trouble me. I begin to see 
what you are, and a little of what you mean. Command 
me, for no other in this world to-day has any right to com- 
mand me — none with a right like yours, father and friend.” 

“ Thanks and amen, Arthur. Having no claim upon 
you we shall be all the more grateful. But in good time. 
For the present look to yourself, closely, mind ; and draw 
upon me, upon Louis, upon your mother, they have the 
warmest hearts, for sympathy and consolation.” 

Not long before and Arthur Dillon would have received 
with the polite indifference of proud and prosperous youth 
this generous offer of sympathy and love ; but now it shook 
him to the center, for he had learned, at what a fearful 
price ! how precious, how necessary, how rare is the jewel 
of human love. 


68 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE WEARIN’ O’ THE GREEN". 

By degrees the effervescence of little Ireland, in which 
strange land, his fortune had been cast, began to steal in- 
to his blood. Mirth ruled the East side, working in each 
soul according to his limitations. It was a wink, a smile, 
a drink, a passing gossoon, a sly girl, a light trick, among 
the unspoken things ; or a biting epigram, the phrase 
felicitous, a story gilt with humor, a witticism swift and 
fatal as lightning ; in addition varied activity, a dance in- 
formal, a ceremonious ball, a party, a wake, a political 
meeting, the visit of the district leader ; and with all, as 
Judy expressed it, “lashins an’ lavins, an’ divil a thought 
of to-morrow.” Indeed this gay clan kept Yesterday so 
deeply and tenderly in mind that To-day’s house had no 
room for the uncertain morrow. He abandoned himself to 
the spirit of the place. The demon of reckless fun 
caught him by the heels and sharpened his tongue, so 
that his wit and his dancing became tonics for eyes and 
ears dusty with commonplace. His mother and his chum 
had to admonish him, and it was very sweet to get this 
sign of their love for him. Reproof from our beloved is 
sweeter than praise from an enemy. 

They all watched over him as if he were heir to a throne. 
The Senator, busy with his approaching entrance into 
local politics, had already introduced him to the leaders, 
who formed a rather mixed circle of intelligence and 
power. He had met its kind before on the frontier, where 
the common denominator in politics was manhood, not 
blue blood, previous good character, wealth, nor the 
stamp of Harvard. A member held his place by virtue 
of courage, popularity, and ability. Arthur made no in- 
quiries, but took everything as it came. All was novelty, 
all surprise, and to his decorous and orderly disposition, 
all ferment. The clan seemed to him to be rushing on- 


69 


ward like a torrent night and day, from the dance to the 
ward-meeting, from business to church, interested and 
yet careless. The Senator informed him with pride that 
his debut would take place at the banquet on St. Patrick’s 
Day, when he should make a speech. 

“ Do you think you can do it, me boy ? ” said the 
Senator. “ If you think you can, why you can.” 

“I know I can,” said the reckless Dillon, who had 
never made a speech in his life. 

“ An’ lemme give you a subject,” said Judy. They 
were all together in the sitting-room, where the Senator 
had surprised them in a game of cards. 

“ Give a bastin’ to Mare Livingstone,” said Judy 
seriously. “I read in the Sun how he won’t inspect the 
parade on St. Patrick’s Day, nor let the green flag fly on 
the city hall. There must be an Orange dhrop in his 
blood, for no dacint Yankee ’ud have anny hathred for 
the blessed green. Sure two years ago Mare Jones dressed 
himself up in a lovely green uniform, like an Irish prince, 
an’ lukked at the parade from a platform. It brought the 
tears to me eyes, he lukked so lovely. They ought to 
have kep’ him Mare for the rest of his life. An’ for 
Mare Livingstone, may never a blade o’ grass or a green 
leaf grow on his grave.” 

The Senator beamed with secret pleasure, while the 
others began to talk together with a bitterness beyond 
Arthur’s comprehension. 

“ He ought to have kept his feelings to himself,” said 
quiet Anne. “ If he didn’t like the green, there was no 
need of insultin’ us.” 

“ And that wasn’t the worst,” Louis hotly added. “ He 
gave a talk to the papers the next day, and told how 
many Irish paupers were in the poorhouse, and said how 
there must be an end to favoring the Irish.” 

“ I saw that too,” said Judy, “ an’ I sez to meself, sez 
I, lie’s wan o’ the snakes St. Pathrick dhruv out of Ire- 
land.” 

“ No need for surprise,” Mona remarked, studying her 
cards, “ for the man has only one thought : to keep the 
Irish in the gutter. Do you suppose I would have been a 
teacher to-day if he could have kept me out of it, with all 
his pretended friendship for papa.” 

“ If you baste the Mayor like this now, there won’t be 


70 


much left for me to do at the banquet,” said Arthur with 
a laugh for their fierceness. 

“ Ay, there it is,” said Judy. “ Yez young Americans 
have no love for the green, except for the fun yez get out 
of it ; barrin’ dacint Louis here, who read the history of 
Ireland whin he was tin years old, an’ niver got over it. 
Oh, yez may laugh away ! Ye are all for the red, white, 
an’ blue, till the Mare belts yez wid the red, white, an’ blue, 
for he says he does everythin in honor o’ thim colors, 
though I don’t see how it honors thim to insult the 
green. He may be a Livingshtone in name, but he’s a dead 
wan for me.” 

The Senator grew more cheerful as this talk grew 
warmer, and then, seeing Arthur’s wonderment, he made 
an explanation. 

“ Livingstone is a good fellow, but he’s not a politician, 
Artie. He thinks he can ru — manage the affairs of this 
vil — metropolis without the Irish and especially without 
the Catholics. Oh, he’s death on them, except as boot- 
blacks, cooks, and ditch-diggers. He’d let them ru — 
manage all the saloons. He’s as mad — as indignant as a 
hornet that he could not boo — get rid of them entirely 
during his term of office, and he had to speak out his 
feelings or bu — die. And he has put his foot in it 
artistically. He has challenged the Irish and their 
friends, and he goes out of office forever next fall. No party 
wants a man that lets go of his mouth at critical moments. 
It might be a neat thing for you to touch him up in your 
speech at the banquet.” 

The Senator spoke with unctuousness and delight, and 
Arthur saw that the politicians rejoiced at the loquacity 
and bad temper of the Honorable Quincy Livingstone, 
whom the Endicotts included among their distant relatives. 

“ I’ll take your subject, Judy,” said he. 

“ Then rade up the histhory of Ireland,” replied the 
old lady flattered. 

Close observation of the present proved more interesting 
and amusing than the study of the past. Quincy Living- 
stone’s strictures on the exiles of Erin stirred them to the 
depths, and his refusal to float the green flag from the 
city hall brought a blossoming of green ribbon on St. 
Patrick’s Day which only Spring could surpass in her 
decorations of the hills. The merchants blessed the sour 


71 


spirit which had provoked this display to the benefit of 
their treasuries. The hard streets seemed to be sprouting 
as the crowds moved about, and even the steps and cor- 
ridors of the mayor’s office glistened with the proscribed 
color. . The cathedral on Mott Street was the center of 
attraction, and a regiment which had done duty in the 
late war the center of interest. Arthur wondered at the 
enthusiasm of the crowd as the veterans carrying their 
torn battle-flags marched down the street and under the 
arched entrance of the church to take their places for the 
solemn Mass. All eyes grew moist, and sobs burst forth 
at sight of them. 

‘‘ If they were only marching for Ireland ! ” one man 
cried hoarsely. 

“ They’ll do it yet,” said another more hopeful. 

Within the cathedral a multitude sat in order, reverently 
quiet, but charged with emotion. With burning eyes 
they watched the soldiers in front and the priests in the 
sanctuary, and some beat their breasts in pain, or writhed 
with sudden stress of feeling. Arthur felt thrilled by 
the power of an emotion but vaguely understood. 
These exiles were living over in this moment the scenes 
which had attended their expulsion from home and country, 
as he often repeated the horrid scenes of his own tragedy. 
Under the reverence and decorum due to the temple 
hearts were bursting with passion and grief. In a little 
while resignation would bring them relief and peace. 

It was like enchantment for Arthur Dillon. He knew 
the vested priest for his faithful friend ; but on the altar, 
in his mystic robes, uplifted, holding the reverent gaze of 
these thousands, in an atmosphere clouded by incense and 
vocal with pathetic harmonies, the priest seemed as far 
away as heaven ; he knew in his strength and his weakness 
the boy beside him, but this enwrapped attitude, this 
eloquent, still, unconscious face, which spoke of thoughts 
and feelings familiar only to the eye of God, seemed to 
lift Louis into another sphere ; he knew the people kneel- 
ing about, the headlong, improvident, roystering crowd, 
but knew them not in this outpouring of deeper emotions 
than spring from the daily chase for bread and pleasure. 

A single incident fixed this scene in his mind and heart 
forever. Just in front of him sat a young woman with 
her father, whom she covertly watched with some anxiety. 


72 


He was a man of big frame and wasted body, too nervous 
to remain quiet a moment, and deeply moved by the 
pageant, for he twisted his hands and beat his breast as if 
m anguish. Once she touched his arm caressingly. And 
the face which he turned towards her was stained with the 
unwiped tears ; but when he stood up at the close of the 
Mass to see the regiment march down the grand aisle, his 
pale face showed so bitter an agony that Arthur recalled 
with horror his own sufferings. The young woman clung 
to her father until the last soldier had passed, and the 
man had sunk into his seat with a half-uttered groan. 
No one noticed them, and Arthur as he left with the 
ladies saw her patting the fathers hand and whispering to 
him softly. 

Outside the cathedral a joyous uproar attended the 
beginning of that parade which the Mayor had declined to 
review. As his party was to enjoy it at some point of Fifth 
Avenue he did not tarry to witness the surprising scenes 
about the church, but with Louis took a car uptown. 
Everywhere they heard hearty denunciations of the Mayor. 
At one street, their car being detained by the passing of a 
single division of the parade, the passengers crowded 
about the front door and the driver, and an anxious 
traveler asked the cause of the delay, and the probable 
length of it. The driver looked at him curiously. 

“ About five minutes/’ he said. “ Don’t you know who’s 
paradin’ to-day ? ” 

“No.” 

“ See the green plumes an’ ribbons ? ’* 

“ I do,” vacantly. 

“ Know what day o’ the month it is ? ” 

“March seventeenth, of course.” 

“Live near New York ? ” 

“ About twenty miles out.” 

“ Gee whiz ! ” exclaimed the driver with a gasp. “ I’ve 
bin a-drivin’ o’ this car for twenty years, an’ I never met 
anythin’ quite so innercent. Well, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, 
an’ them’s the wild Irish.” 

The traveler seemed but little enlightened. An em- 
phatic man in black, with a mouth so wide that its open- 
ing suggested the wonderful, seized the hand of the in- 
nocent and shook it cordially. 

“I’m glad to meet one uncontaminated American 


73 


citizen in this city,” he said. “ I hope there are millions 
like you in the land.” 

The uncontaminated looked puzzled, and might have 
spoken but for a violent interruption. A man had entered 
the car with an orange ribbon in his buttonhole. 

“ You'll have to take that off,” said the conductor in 
alarm, pointing to the ribbon,” or leave the car.” 

“ I won't do either,” said the man. 

“ And I stand by you in that refusal,” said the emphatic 
gentleman. “ It's an outrage that we must submit to the 
domination of foreigners.” 

“It's the order of the company,” said the conductor. 
“ First thing we know a wild Irishman comes along, he 
goes for that orange ribbon, there's a fight, the women are 
frightened, and perhaps the car is smashed.” 

“ An' besides,” said the deliberate driver as he tied up 
his reins and took off his gloves, “ it's a darn sight easier 
an' cheaper for us to put you off than to keep an Irishman 
from tryin' to murder you.” 

The uncontaminated citizen and two ladies fled to the 
street, while the driver and the conductor stood over the 
offending passenger. 

“ Goin' to take off the ribbon ?” asked the conductor. 

“ You will be guilty of a cowardly surrender of prin- 
ciple if you do,” said the emphatic gentleman. 

“ May I suggest,” said Arthur blandly, “that you wear 
it in his stead ? ” 

“ I am not interested either way,” returned the emphatic 
one, with a snap of the terrible jaws, “ but maintain that 
for the sake of principle ” 

A long speech was cut off at that moment by a war-cry 
from a simple lad who had just entered the car, spied the 
ribbon, and launched himself like a catapult upon the 
Orange champion. A lively scramble followed, but the 
scene speedily resolved itself into its proper elements. 
The procession had passed, the car moved on its way, and 
the passengers through the rear door saw the simple lad 
grinding the ribbon in the dust with triumphant heel, 
while its late wearer flew toward the horizon pursued by 
an imaginary mob. Louis sat down and glared at the 
emphatic man. 

“Who is he ?” said Arthur with interest, drawing his 
breath with joy over the delights of this day. 


74 


“ He’s a child-stealer/’ said Louis with distinctness. 
“ He kidnaps Catholic children and finds them Protestant 
homes where their faith is stolen from them. He’s the 
most hated man in the city.” 

The man accepted this scornful description of himself 
in silence. Except for the emphasis which nature had 
given to his features, he was a presentable person. Fly- 
ing side-whiskers made his mouth appear grotesquely 
wide, and the play of strong feelings had produced vicious 
wrinkles on his spare face. He appeared to he a man of 
energy, vivacity and vulgarity, reminding one of a dinner of 
pork and cabbage. He was soon forgotten in the excite- 
ment of a delightful day, whose glories came to a brilliant 
end in that banquet which introduced the nephew of Sena- 
tor Dillon into political life. 

Standing before the guests, he found himself no longer 
that silent and disdainful Horace Endicott, who on such 
an occasion would have cooly stuttered and stammered 
through fifty sentences of dull congratulation and plati- 
tude. Feeling aroused him, illumined him, on the instant, 
almost without wish of his own, at the contrast between 
two pictures which traced themselves on his imagination 
as he rose in his place : the wrecked man who had fled from 
Sonia Westfield, what would he have been to-night but for 
the friendly hands outstretched to save him ? Behold 
him in honor, in health, in hope, sure of love and some 
kind of happiness, standing before the people who had 
rescued him. The thousand impressions of the past six 
months sparkled into life ; the sublime, pathetic, and 
amusing scenes of that day rose up like stars in his fancy ; 
and against his lips, like water against a dam, rushed 
vigorous sentences from the great deeps opened in his soul 
by grief and change, and then leaped over in a beautiful, 
glittering flood. He wondered vaguely at his vehemence 
and fluency, at the silence in the hall, that these great 
people should listen to him at all. They heard him with 
astonishment, the leaders with interest, the Senator with 
tears ; and Monsignor looked once towards the gallery 
where Anne Dillon sat literally frozen with terror and 
pride. 

The long and sincere applause which followed the 
speech warned him that he had impressed a rather callous 
crowd of notables, and an exaltation seized him. The 


75 


guests lost no time in congratulating him, and every 
tongue wagged in his favor. 

“ You have the gift of eloquence/’ said Sullivan. 

<f It will be a pleasure to hear you again/’ said Vander- 
velt, the literary and social light of the Tammany circle. 

“You have cleared your own road,” Birmingham the 
financier remarked, and he stayed long to praise the young 
orator. 

“There’s nothin’ too good for you after to-night,” 
cried the Senator brokenly. “ I simply can’t — cannot talk 
about it.” 

“ Your uncle,” said Doyle Grahame, the young journal- 
ist who was bent on marrying Mona Everard, “as usual 
closes the delicate sparring of his peers with a knock- 
down blow ; there’s nothing too good for you.” 

“It’s embarrassing.” 

“ I wish I had your embarrassment. Shall I translate 
the praises of these great men for you ? Sullivan meant, 
I must have the use of your eloquence ; the lion Yander- 
velt, when you speak in my favor ; Birmingham, please 
stump for me when I run for office ; and the Senator, I 
will make you governor. You may use your uncle ; the 
others hope to use you.” 

“ I am willing to be of service,” said Arthur severely. 

“ A good-nature thrown away, unless you are asked to 
serve. They have all congratulated you on your speech. 
Let me congratulate you on your uncle. They marvel at 
your eloquence ; I, at your luck. Give me such an uncle 
rather than the gift of poesy. Do not neglect oratory, 
but cultivate thy uncle, boy.” 

Arthur laughed, Monsignor came up then, and heaped 
him with praise. 

“ Were you blessed with fluency in — your earlier years ? ” 
he said. 

“‘Therein lies the surprise, and the joke. I never had 
an accomplishment except for making an uproar in a crowd. 
It seems ridiculous to show signs of the orator now, without 
desire, ambition, study, or preparation.” 

“ Your California experiences,” said the priest casually, 
“ may have something to do with it. But let me warn you,” 
and he looked about to make sure no one heard, “that 
early distinction in your case may attract the attention you 
wish to escape.” 


76 


“ I feel that it will help me,” Arthur answered. “ Who 
that knew Horace Endicott would look for him in a 
popular Tammany orator ? The mantle of an Irish 
Cicero would disguise even a Livingstone.” 

The surprise and pleasure of the leaders were cold be- 
side the wild delight of the Dillon clan when the news went 
around that Arthur had overshadowed the great speakers 
of the banquet. His speech was read in every gathering, 
its sarcastic description of the offensive Livingstone filled 
the Celts with joy, and threw Anne and Judy into an 
ecstasy. 

“ Faith, Mare Livingstone’ll see green on St. Patrick’s 
Day for the rest of his life,” said Judy. “ It’ ud be a proper 
punishment if the bread he ate, an’ everythin’ he touched 
on that day, sliud turn greener than ould Ireland, the land 
he insulted.” 

“ There’s curse enough on him,” Anne replied sharply, 
ever careful to take Arthur’s side, as she thought, “and 
I won’t have you spoiling Arthur’s luck be cursing any wan. 
I’m too glad to have an orator in the family. I can now 
put my orator against Mary Everard’s priest, and be as 
proud as she is.” 

(e The pride was born in ye,” said Judy. “You won’t 
have to earn it. Indade, ye’ll have a new flirt to yer tail, 
an’ a new toss to yer head, every day from now to his next 
speech.” 

“ Why shouldn’t I ? I’m his mother,” with emphasis. 


77 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE VILLA AT CONEY ISLAND. 

The awkwardness of his relations with Anne Dillon wore 
away speedily, until he began to think as well as speak of 
her as his mother ; for she proved with time to be a 
humorous and delightful mother. Her love for rich 
colors and gay scenes, her ability to play gracefully the 
awkward part which he had chosen for her, her affectionate 
and discreet reserve, her delicate tact and fine wit, and 
her half-humorous determination to invade society, showed 
her as a woman of parts. He indulged her fancies, in 
particular her dream of entering the charmed circle of 
New York society. How this success should be won, and 
what was the circle, he did not know, nor care. The 
pleasure for him lay in her bliss as she exhausted one 
pleasure after another, and ever sought for higher things : 
Micksheen at the cat show attended by the liveried 
mulatto ; the opera and the dog show, with bonnets and 
costumes to match the occasion ; then her own carriage, 
used so discreetly as not to lose the respect of the parish ; 
and finally the renting of the third pew from the front in 
the middle aisle of the cathedral, a step forward in the 
social world. How he had enjoyed these events in her 
upward progress ! As a closing event for the first year of 
his new life, he suggested a villa by the sea for the summer, 
with Mona and Louis as guests for the season, with as 
many others as pleased her convenience. The light which 
broke over her face at this suggestion came not from 
within, but direct from heaven ! 

She sent him modestly to a country of the Philistines 
known as Coney Island, where he found the common herd 
enjoying a dish called chowder amid much spontaneity 
and "dirt, and mingling their uproarious bathing with 
foaming beer ; a picture framed in white sand and sounding 
sea, more than pleasant to the jaded taste of an Endicott. 


78 


The roar of the surf drowned the mean uproar of discord- 
ant man. The details of life there were too cheap to be 
looked at closely ; but at a distance the surface had 
sufficient color and movement. He found an exception 
to this judgment. La Belle Colette danced with artistic 
power, though in surroundings unsuited to her skill. He 
called it genius. In an open pavilion, whose roughness 
the white sand and the white-green surf helped to con- 
done, on a tawdry stage, she appeared, a slight, pale, 
winsome beauty, clad in green and white gauze, looking 
like a sprite of the near-by sea. The witohery of her 
dancing showed rare art, which was lost altogether on the 
simple crowd. She danced carelessly, as if mocking the 
rustics, and made her exit without applause. 

“ Where did you get your artiste, August ? ” he said to 
a waiter. 

“ You saw how well she dances, hey ? Poor Colette ! 
The best creature in the world . . . opens more wine than 
five, and gives too much away. But for the drink she 
might dance at the opera.” 

Arthur went often to see her dance, with pity for the 
talent thrown away, and brought his mother under protest 
from that cautious lady, who would have nothing to do with 
so common a place. The villa stood in respectable, even 
aristocratic, quiet at the far end of the island, and Anne 
regarded it almost with reverence, moving about as if in 
a temple. He found, however, that she had made it a 
stage for a continuous drama, in which she played the 
leading part, and the Dillon clan with all its ramifications 
played minor characters and the audience. Her motives 
and her methods he could not fathom and did not try ; the 
house filled rapidly, that was enough ; the round of 
dinners, suppers, receptions, dances, and whatnots had 
the regularity df the tides. Everybody came down from 
Judy’s remotest cousin up to His Grace the archbishop. 
Even Edith Conyngham, apparently too timid to leave the 
shadow of Sister Magdalen, stole into a back room with 
Judy, and haunted the beach for a few days. For Judy’s 
sake he turned aside to entertain her, and with the perversity 
which seems to follow certain actions he told her the 
pathetic incident of the dancer. Why he should have 
chosen this poor nun to hear this tale, embellished as if to 
torture her, he could never make out. Often in after 


79 


years, when events had given the story significance, he 
sought for his own motives in vain. It might have been 
the gray hair, the rusty dress, the depressed manner, so 
painful a contrast to the sea-green sprite, all youth, and 
grace, and beauty, which provoked him. 

“ I shall pray for the poor thing,” said rusty Edith, 
fingering her beads, and then she made to grasp his hand, 
which he thrust into his pockets. 

“ Not a second time,” he told Louis. “ Fd rather get 
the claw of a boiled lobster.” 

The young men did not like Miss Conyngham, but Louis 
pitied her sad state. 

The leading characters on Anne’s stage, at least the 
persons whom she permitted occasionally to fill its center, 
were the anxious lovers Mona and Doyle Grahame. He was 
a poet to his finger-tips, dark-haired, ruddy, manly, with 
clear wit, and the tenderest and bravest of dark eyes ; and 
she, red-tressed, lovely, candid, simple, loved him with her 
whole heart while submitting to the decree of a sour father 
who forbade the banns. Friends like Anne gave them the 
opportunity to woo, and the Dillon clan stood as one to 
blind the father as to what was going on. The sight of 
this beauty and faith and love feeding on mutual confidence 
beside the sunlit surf and the moonlight waters gave 
Arthur profound sadness, steeped his heart in bitterness. 
Such scenes had been the prelude to his tragedy. De- 
spair looked out of his eyes and frightened Louis. 

“ Why should you mind it so, after a year ? ” the lad 
pleaded. 

“ Time was when I minded nothing. I thought love 
and friendship, goodness and happiness, grew on every 
bush, and that 

When we were far from the lips that we loved, 

We had but to make love to the lips that were near. 

I am wiser now.” 

“ Away with that look,” Louis protested. “ You have 
love in plenty with us, and you must not let yourself go 
like that. It’s frightful.” 

“ It’s gone,” Arthur answered rousing himself. “ The 
feeling will never go farther than a look. She was not 
worth it — but the sight of these two — I suppose Adam 
must have grieved looking back at paradise.” 


80 


“They have their troubles also,” Louis said to dis- 
tract his mind. “Father is unkind and harsh with Irish 
patriots, and because- Grahame went through the mill, 
conspiracy, arrest, jail, prison, escape, and all the rest of 
it, he won't hear of marriage for Mona with him. Of 
course he'll have to come down in time. Grahame is the 
best fellow, and clever too.” 

One day seemed much the same as another to Arthur, 
but his mother’s calendar had the dates marked in various 
colors, according to the rank of her visitors. The visit of 
the archbishop shone in figures of gold, but the day and 
hour which saw Lord Constantine cross her threshold and 
sit at her table stood out on the calendar in letters of flame. 
The Ledwiths who brought him were of little account, ex- 
cept as the friends of His Lordship. Anne informed the 
household the day before of the honor which heaven was 
sending them, and gave minute instructions as to the eti- 
quette to be observed ; and if Arthur wished to laugh the 
blissful light in her face forbade. The rules of etiquette 
did not include the Ledwiths, who could put up with or- 
dinary politeness and be grateful. 

“I can see from the expression of Mona,” Arthur ob- 
served to the other gentlemen, “ that the etiquette of to- 
morrow puts us out of her sight. And who is Lord Con- 
stantine ? I ought to know, so I did not dare ask.” 

“ A young English noble, son and heir of a Marquis,” 
said Grahame with mock solemnity, “ who is devoted to 
the cause of bringing London and Washington closer to- 
gether in brotherly love and financial, that is rogues' 
sympathy — no, roguish sympathy — that’s better. He 
would like an alliance between England and us. There- 
fore he cultivates the Irish. And he'd marry Honora 
Ledwith to-morrow if she'd have him. That's part of the 
scheme.” 

“And who are the Ledwiths ?” said Arthur incau- 
tiously, but no one noticed the slip at the moment. 

“ People with ideas, strange weird ideas,” Louis made 
answer. “ Oh, perfectly sane, of course, but so devoted 
to each other, and the cause of Ireland, that they can get 
along with none, and few can get along with them. That’s 
why Pop thinks so much of ’em. They are forever run- 
ning about the world, deep in conspiracies for freedom, 
and so on, but they never get anywhere to stay. Outside 


81 

of that they’re the loveliest souls the sun ever shone on, 
and I adore Honora.” 

“ And if Mona takes to His Lordship,” said Grahame, 
“ I’ll worship Miss Ledwith.” 

“ Y ery conf using,” Arthur muttered. “ English noble, 
— alliance between two countries — cultivates Irish — wants 
to marry Irish girl — conspirators and all that — why, there’s 
no head or tail to the thing.” 

“ Well, you keep your eye on Honora Ledwith and me, 
and you’ll get the key. She’s the sun of the system. And, 
by the way, don’t you remember old Ledwith, the red-hot 
lecturer on the woes of Ireland ? Didn’t you play on her 
doorstep in Madison street, and treat her to Washington 
pie ?” 

When the party arrived next day Arthur saw a hand- 
some, vigorous, blond young man, hearty in his manner, 
and hesitating in his speech, whom he forgot directly in 
his surprise over the Ledwiths ; for he recognized in them 
the father and daughter whom he had observed in so pas- 
sionate a scene in the cathedral on St. Patrick’s Day. He 
had their history by heart, the father being a journalist 
and the daughter a singer ; they had traveled half the 
world ; and while every one loved them none favored their 
roseate schemes for the freedom of Ireland. Perhaps this 
had made them peculiar. At the first glance one would 
have detected oddity as well as distinction in them. Tall, 
lean, vivacious, Owen Ledwith moved about restlessly, 
talked much, and with considerable temper. The daugh- 
ter sat placid and watchful, quite used toplaying audience 
to his entertainments ; though her eyes never seemed to 
look at him, Arthur saw that she missed none of his move- 
ments, never failed to catch his words and to smile her 
approval. The whiteness of her face was like cream, and 
her dark blue eyes were pencilled by lashes so black that 
at the first glance they seemed of a lighter shade. Im- 
pressed to a degree by what at that instant could not be 
put into words, he named her in his own mind the White 
Lady. No trace of disdain spoiled her lofty manner, yet 
he thought she looked at people as if they were minor in- 
struments in her own scheme. She made herself at home 
like one accustomed to quick changes of scene. A woman 
of that sort travels round the globe with a satchel, and 
dresses for the play with a ribbon and a comb, never find- 
6 


82 


ing the horizon too large for personal comfort. Clearly 
she was beloved in the Dillon circle, for they made much 
of her ; but of course that day not even the master of the 
house was a good second to Lord Constantine. Anne 
moved about like herself in a dream. She was heavenly, 
and Arthur enjoyed it, offering incense to His Lordship, 
and provoking him into very English utterances. The 
young man’s fault was that he rode his hobby too 
hard. 

“ It’s a shame, doncheknow,” he cried as soon as he 
could decently get at his favorite theme, “ that the Eng- 
lish-speaking peoples should be so hopelessly divided just 
now ” 

“ Hold on. Lord Conny,” interrupted Grahame, “you’re 
talking Greek to Dillon. Arthur, m’lud has a theory that 
the English-speaking peoples should do something together, 
doncheknow, and the devil of it is to get ’em together, 
doncheknow.” 

They all laughed save Anne, who looked awful at this 
scandalous mimicry of a personage, until His Lordship 
laughed too. 

“ You are only a journalist,” said he gayly, “ and talk 
like your journal. As I was saying, we are divided at 
home, and here it is much worse. The Irish here hate 
us worse than their brethren at home hate us, donche- 
know — thank you, Miss Ledwith, I really will not use that 
word again — and all the races settled with you seem to 
dislike one another extremely. In Canada it’s no better, 
and sometimes I would despair altogether, only a begin- 
ning must be made sometime, and I am really doing very 
well among the Irish.” 

He looked towards Honora who smiled and turned 
again to Arthur with those gracious eyes. 

“I knew yon would not forget it,” she said. “The 
Washington pie in itself would keep it in your mind. 
How I loved that pie, and every one who gave me some. 
Your coming home must have been very wonderful to 
your dear mother.” 

“ More wonderful than I could make you understand,” 
murmured Arthur. “ Do you know the old house is still 
in Madison street, where we played and ate the pie ? ” 

Louis put his head between them slyly and whispered : 

“ I can run over to the baker’s if you wish and get a 


83 


chunk of that identical pie, if you’re so in love with it, 
and we’ll have the whole scene over again.” 

No persuasion could induce the party to remain over 
night at the villa, because of important engagements in 
the city touching the alliance and the freedom of Erin ; 
and the same tremendous interests would take them far 
away the next morning to be absent for months ; but the 
winter would find them in the city and, when they would 
be fairly settled, Arthur was bid to come and dihe with 
them often. On the last boat the White Lady sailed away 
with her lord and father, and Anne watched the boat 
out of sight, sighing like one who has been ravished to 
the third heaven, and finds it a distressing job to get a 
grip on earth again. 

Arthur noticed that his mother dressed particularly 
well for the visits of the politicians, and entertained 
them sumptuously. Was she planning for his career ? 
Delicious thought ! But no, the web was weaving for 
the Senator. When the last knot was tied, she threw it 
over his head in perfect style. He complimented her 
on her latest costume. She swung about the room with 
mock airs and graces to display it more perfectly, and 
the men applauded. Good fortune had brought her 
back a likeness of her former beauty, angles and wrinkles 
had vanished, there was luster in her hair, and her melt- 
ing eyes shone clear blue, a trifle faded. In her old age 
the coquette of twenty years back was returning with a 
charm which caught brother and son. 

“ I shall wear one like it at your inauguration, Senator,” 
said she brightly. 

“ For President ? Thank you. But the dress reminds 
me, Anne,” the Senator added with feeling, “ of what 
you were twenty years ago : the sweetest and prettiest 
girl in the city.” 

“ Oh, you always have the golden word,” said she, 
“and thank you. But you’ll not be elected president, 
only mayor of our own city.” 

“ It might come — in time,” the Senator thought. 

“ And now is the time,” cried she so emphatically that 
he jumped. “ Vandervelt told me that no man could be 
elected unless you said the word. Why shouldn’t you 
say it for yourself ? He told me in the same breath he’d 
like to see you in the place afore any friend he had, be- 


84 


cause you were a man o’ your word, and no wan could 
lose be your election.” 

“ Did he say all that ?” 

“ Every word, and twice as much,” she declared with 
eagerness. “ Now think it over with all your clever 
brains, Senator dear, and lift up the Dillon name to the 
first place in the city. Oh, I’d give me life to see that 
glory.” 

“ And to win it,” Arthur added under his breath. 

The Senator was impressed, and Arthur had a feeling akin 
to awe. Who can follow the way of the world ? The 
thread of destiny for the great city up the bay lay between 
the fingers of this sweet, ambitious house-mother, and of 
the popular gladiator. Even though she should lead the 
Senator by the nose to humiliation, the scene was wonder- 
fully picturesque, and her thought daring. He did not 
know enough history to be aware that this same scene 
had happened several hundred times in past centuries ; 
but he went out to take another look at the house which 
sheltered a woman of pluck and genius. The secret of 
the villa was known. Anne had used it to help in the 
selection of the next Mayor. He laughed from the depths 
of his being as he walked along the shore. 

The Everard children returned home early in September 
to enjoy the preparations for the entrance of Louis into 
the seminary. The time had arrived for him to take up 
the special studies of the priesthood, and this meant his 
separation from the home circle forever. He would come 
and go for years perhaps, but alas ! only as a visitor. 
The soul of Arthur was knit with the lad’s as Jonathan 
with David. He had never known a youth so gracious 
and so strange, whose heart was like a sanctuary where 

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 

The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chants resound between. 

It was with him as with Sir Galahad. 

But all my heart is drawn above. 

My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden’s hand in mine. 

Parting with him was a calamity. 


85 

“ How can you let him go ? " he said to Mary Everard, 
busy with the preparations. 

“I am a happy woman that God calls my boy to His 
service," she answered cheerfully. “ The children go any- 
way . . . it’s nature. I left father and mother for my own 
home. How good it is to think he is going to the sanctu- 
ary. I know that he is going forever ... he is mine no 
more ... he will come back often, but he is mine no more. 
I am heart-broken ... I am keeping a gay face while he is 
here, for the child must not be worried with our grief . . . 
time enough for that when he is gone . . . and he is so 
happy. My heart is leaving me to go with him. Twenty 
years since he was born, and in all that time not a mo- 
ment's pain on his account ... all his life has been ours 
... as if he were the father of the family. What shall 
I be for the rest of my life, listening for his step and his 
voice, and never a sight or sound of him for months at a 
time. God give me strength to bear it. If I live to see 
him on the altar, I shall thank God and die. ..." 

Twenty years she had served him, yet here came the in- 
evitable end, as if such love had never been. 

“ Oh, you people of faith ! I believe you never suffer, 
nor know what suffering is ! " 

“ Not your kind of suffering, surely, or we would die. 
Our hope is always with us, and fortunately does not de- 
pend on our moods for its power." 

Mona teased him into good humor. That was a great 
moment when in presence of the family the lad put on the 
dress of the seminary, Arthur's gift. Feeling like a prince 
who clothes his favorite knight in his new armor, Arthur 
helped him to don the black cassock, tied the ribbons of 
the surplice, and fixed the three-cornered cap properly on 
the brown, curly head. A pallor spread over the mother's 
face. Mona talked much to keep back her tears, and the 
father declared it a shame to make a priest of so fine a 
fellow, since there were too many priests in the world for 
its good. The boy walked about as proud as a young soldier 
dressed for his first parade. The Trumps, enraptured at 
the sight, clapped their hands with joy. 

“ Why, he's a priest," cried Constance, with a twist of 
her pretty mouth. “ Louis is a priest." 

“ No, Baby," corrected Marguerite, the little mother, 
“ but he is going to be one sometime." 


86 


The wonderful garments enchanted them, they feared to 
touch him, and protested when he swung them high and 
kissed them on the return flight. The boy’s departure for 
the seminary stirred the region of Cherry Hill. The old 
neighbors came and went in a steady procession for two 
days to take their leave of him, to bless his parents, and to 
wish them the joy of seeing him one day at the altar as a 
priest of God. They bowed to him with that reverence which 
belonged to Monsignor, only more familiar and loquacious, 
and each brought his gift of respect or affection. Even 
the Senator and the Boss appeared to say a parting word. 

“ I wish you luck, Louis,” the Senator said in his re- 
sonant voice, and with the speaker’s chair before his eyes, 
“ and I know you’ll get it, because you have deserved it, 
sir. I’ve seen you grow up, and I’ve always been proud to 
know you, and I want to know you as long as I live. If 
ever you should need a hand like mine in the ga . . . I 
mean, if ever my assistance is of any use to you, you know 
where to call.” 

“ You have a hard road to travel,” the genial Sullivan 
said at the close of his visit, “ but your training has 
prepared you for it, and we all hope you will walk it honor- 
ably to the end. Remember we all take an interest in you, 
and what happens to you for good or ill will be felt in this 
parish.” 

Then the moment of parting came, and Arthur thought 
less of his own grief than of the revelation it contained for 
him. Was this the feeling which prompted the tears of 
his mother, and the tender, speechless embrace of his dear 
father in the far-off days when he set out for school ? Was 
this the grief which made the parting moment terrible ? 
Then he had thought it nothing that for months of the 
year they should be without his beloved presence ! He 
shivered at the last embraces of Mary and Mona, at the 
tears of the children ; he saw behind the father’s mask of 
calmness ; he wondered no more at himself as he stood 
looking after the train which bore the boy away. The city 
seemed as vacant all at once as if turned into a desert. The 
room in the attic, with its bed, its desk, and its altar, sud- 
denly became a terrible place, like a body from which the 
soul has fled. Every feature of it gave him pain, and he 
hurried back with Mona to the frivolity of Anne in her 
villa by the sea. 


87 


CHAPTER X. 

THE HUMORS OE ELECTION - . 

When the villa closed the Senator was hopelessly en- 
meshed in the golden net which had been so skilfully and 
genially woven by Anne during the summer. He be- 
lieved himself to be the coming man, all his natural 
shrewdness and rich experience going for naught before 
the witchery of his sister’s imagination. In her mind the 
climax of the drama was a Dillon at the top of the heap 
in the City Hall. Alas, the very first orders of the chief 
to his secretary swept away the fine-spun dreams of the 
Dillons, as the broom brushes into obscure dirt the won- 
drous cobweb. The Hon. John Sullivan spoke in short 
sentences, used each man according to that man’s nature, 
stood above and ahead of his cleverest lieutenants, had few 
prejudices, and these noble, and was truly a hero on the 
battle-ground of social forces, where no artillery roars, no 
uniforms glare, and no trumpets sound for the poets. The 
time having come for action he gave Arthur his orders on 
the supposition that he understood the political situation, 
which he did in some degree, but not seriously. The 
Endicotts looked upon elections as the concern of the 
rabble, and this Endicott thought it perhaps an occasion 
for uproarious fun. His orders partly sobered him. 

“ Go to your uncle,” said Sullivan, “and tell him he’s 
not in the "race. I don’t know where he got that bee in 
his bonnet. Then arrange with Everard to call on Liv- 
ingstone. Do what you can to straighten the Mayor out. 
He ought to be the candidate.” 

This dealing with men inspired him. Hitherto 
he had been playing with children in the garden of 
life ; now he stood with the fighters in the terrible arena. 
And his first task was to extinguish the roseate dreams of 
Anne and her gladiator, to destroy that exquisite fabric 
woven of moonlit seas, enchanting dinners, and Parisian 


88 


millinery. Never ! Let the chief commit that sacrilege ! 
He would not say the word whose utterance might wound 
the hearts that loved him. The Senator and Anne should 
have a clear field. High time for the very respectable 
citizens of the metropolis to secure a novelty for mayor, to 
get a taste of Roman liberty, when a distinguished member 
of the arena could wear the purple if he had the mind. 

Birmingham forced him to change his attitude. The 
man of money was both good-hearted and large-minded, 
and had departed from the ways of commerce to seek dis- 
tinction in politics. Stolid, without enthusiasm or dash, 
he could be stubbornly great in defence of principle. 
Success and a few millions had not changed his early 
theories of life. Pride in his race, delight in his religion, 
devotion to his party, increased in him as he rose to honor 
and fame. Arthur Dillon felt still more the seriousness of 
the position when this man came to ask his aid in securing 
the nomination. 

“ There never was a time in the history of the city, *’ 
said Birmingham, “ when a Catholic had such a chance 
to become mayor as now. Protestants would not have 
him, if he were a saint. But prejudice has abated, and 
confidence in us has increased since the war. Sullivan 
can have the position if he wants it. So can many others. 
All of them can afford to wait, while I cannot. I am not 
a politician, only a candidate. At any moment, by the 
merest accident, I may become one of the impossibles. I 
am anxious, therefore, to secure the nomination this 
year. I would like to get your influence. Where the 
balance is often turned by the weight of a hair one cannot 
be too alert. ” 

“ Do you think I have influence ? ” said Arthur 
humbly. 

“You are the secretary/’ Birmingham answered, sur- 
prised. 

“ I shall have to use it in behalf of my uncle then.” 

“ And if your uncle should not run ? ” 

“ I should be happy to give you my support.” 

Birmingham looked as blank as one before whom a door 
opens unexpectedly. 

“You understand,” continued Arthur, “ that I have 
been absent too long to grasp the situation clearly. I 
think my uncle aspires ...” 


89 


“ A very worthy man,” mumured Birmingham. 

“ You seem to think lie has not much of a chance ...” 

“ I know something of Sullivan’s mind,” Birmingham 
ventured, “ and you know it still better. The exploits of 
the Senator in his youth — really it would be well for him 
not to expose himself to public ridicule ...” 

“ I had not thought of that,” said Arthur, when the 
other paused delicately. “ You are quite right. He 
should not expose himself. As no other has done me the 
honor to ask my help, I am free to help you.” 

“ You are more than kind. This nomination means 
election, and election means the opening of a fine career 
for me. Beyond lie the governorship, the senate, and 
perhaps higher things. To us these high offices have been 
closed as firmly as if they were in Sweden. I want the 
honor of breaking down the barriers.” 

“It is time. I hope you will get the honor,” said 
Arthur gravely. He felt sadly about the Senator, and the 
shining ambition of his mother. How could he shatter 
their dreams ? Yet in very pity the task had to be done, 
and when next he heard them vaporing on the glory of the 
future, he said casually : 

“ I know what your enemies will say if you come into 
contrast with Livingstone.” 

“ I’ve heard it often enough,” answered the Senator 
gayly. “ If I’d listened to them I’d be still in the ring.” 

Then a suspicion overcame him, and he cried out 
bitterly : 

“ Do you say the same, Artie ? ” 

“ Rot. There isn’t another like you in the whole world, 
uncle. If my vote could do it you’d go into the White 
House to-morrow. If you’re in earnest in this business of 
the nomination, then I’m with you to the last ditch. Now 
when you become mayor of the first city in the land” — 
Oh, the smile which flashed on the faces of Anne and 
the Senator at this phrase ! — “ you become also the target 
of every journal in the country, of every comic paper, of 
every cartoonist. All your little faults, your blunders, 
past and present, are magnified. They sing of you in the 
music-halls. Oh, there would be no end to it ! Ridicule 
is worse than abuse. It would hurt your friends more 
than you. You could not escape it, and no one could 
answer it. Is the prize worth the pain ? ” 


90 


Then he looked out of the window to escape seeing 
the pain in his mother’s face, and the bitterness in the 
Senator’s. He did not illustrate his contention with ex- 
amples, for with these the Senator and his friends were 
familiar. A light arose on the poor man’s horizon. 
Looking timidly at Anne, after a moment’s pause, he 
said : 

“I never thought of all that. You’ve put me on the 
right track, Artie. I thank you.” 

“ What can I do,” he whispered to Anne, “ since it’s 
plain he wants me to give in — no, to avoid the comic 
papers ? ” 

“ Whatever he wishes must be done,” she replied with a 
gesture of despair. 

“The boy is a wonder,” thought the Senator. “He 
has us all under that little California thumb.” 

“ I was a fool to think of the nomination,” he said aloud 
as Arthur turned from the window. “ Of course there’d 
be no end to the ridicule. Didn’t the chap on Harper’s, 
when I was elected for the Senate, rig me out as a glad- 
iator, without a stitch on me, actually, Artie, not a stitch 
— most indecent thing — and show old Cicero in the same 
picture looking at me like John Everard, with a sneer, 
and singing to himself : a senator ! No, I couldn’t stand 
it. I give up. I’ve got as high as my kind can go. But 
there’s one thing, if I can’t be mayor myself, I can say 
who’s goin’ to be.” 

“ Then make it Birmingham, uncle,” Arthur suggested. 
“ I would like to see him in that place next to you.” 

“ And Birmingham it is, unless ” — he looked at Anne 
limp with disappointment — “ unless I take it into my 
head to name you for the place.” 

She gave a little cry of joy and sat up straight. 

“ Now God bless you for that word. Senator. It’ll be a 
Dillon anyway.” 

“In that easel make Birmingham second choice,” 
Arthur said seriously, accepting the hint as a happy end- 
ing to a rather painful scene. 

The second part of the Chief’s order proved more enter- 
taining. To visit the Mayor and sound him on the ques- 
tion of his own renomination appeared to Arthur amusing 
rather than important ; because of his own rawness for 
such a mission, and also because of their relationship. 


91 


Livingstone was his kinsman. Of course John Everard 
gave the embassy character, but his reputation re- 
flected on its usefulness. Nature had not yet provided a 
key to the character of Louis' father. Arthur endured 
him because Louis loved him, quoted him admiringly, and 
seemed to understand him most of the time ; but he could 
not understand an Irishman who maintained, as a prin- 
ciple of history, the inferiority of his race to the English, 
traced its miseries to its silly pride, opposed all schemes of 
progress until his principle was accepted, and placed the 
salvation of his people in that moment when they should 
have admitted the inferiority imposed by nature, and laid 
aside their wretched conceit. This perverse nature had a 
sociable, even humorous side, and in a sardonic way loved 
its own. 

“ I have often wondered," Arthur said, when they were 
discussing the details of the mission to Livingstone, “ how 
your tough fiber ever generated beings so tender and beau- 
tiful as Mona, and Louis, and the Trumps. And now Fm 
wondering why Sullivan associates you and me in this 
business. Is it his plan to sink the Mayor deeper in his 
own mud ? " 

“ Whatever his plan I'd like to know what he means in 
sending with me to the noblest official in the city and the 
land, for that matter, the notorious orator of a cheap 
banquet." 

“ I think it means that Quincy must apologize to the 
Irish, or nominate himself," said Arthur slowly. 

A lively emotion touched him when he first entered the 
room where the Mayor sat stately and gracious. In him 
the Endicott features were emphatic and beautiful. Tall, 
ruddy, perfectly dressed, with white hair and moustache 
shining like silver, and dark blue eyes full of fire, the 
aristocrat breathed from him like a perfume. His greet- 
ing both for Everard and Dillon had a graciousness tinged 
with contempt ; a contempt never yet perceived by 
Everard, but perceived and promptly answered on Arthur's 
part with equal scorn. 

“ Mr. Dillon comes from Sullivan," said Everard, “ to 
ask you, as a condition of renomination, that you take 
back your remarks on the Irish last winter. You did 
them good. They are so soaked in flattery, the flattery of 
budding orators, that your talk wakes them to the truth." 


92 


“ I take nothing back,” said the Mayor in a calm, sweet 
voice to which feeling gave an edge. 

‘‘Then you do not desire the nomination of Tammany 
Hall ?” Arthur said with a placid drawl, which usually 
exasperated Everard and other people. 

“ But I do,” the Mayor answered quickly, comprehend- 
ing on the instant the quality of this antagonist, feeling 
his own insolence in the tone. “ I merely decline the 
conditions. ” 

“ Then you must nominate yourself, for the Irish won’t 
vote for you,” cried Everard. 

“ The leaders would like to give you the nomination, 
Mr. Livingstone. You may have it, if you can find the 
means to placate offended voters for your behavior and 
your utterances on St. Patrick’s Day.” 

“ Go down on your knees at once, Mayor,” sneered 
Everard. 

“I hope Your Honor does not pay too much attention 
to the opinions of this gentleman,” said Arthur with a 
gesture for his companion. “ He’s a Crusoe in politics. 
There’s no one else on his island. You have a history, 
sir, which is often told in the Irish colony here. I have 
heard it often since my return home ” 

“ This is the gentleman who spoke of your policy at the 
Donnybrook banquet,” Everard interrupted. 

Livingstone made a sign for silence, and took a closer 
look at Arthur. 

“ The Irish do not like you, they have no faith in you 
as a fair man, they say that you are always planning 
against them, that you are responsible for the deviltries 
practised upon them through gospel missions, soup 
kitchens, kidnapping industries, and political intrigues. 
Whether these things be true, it seems to me that a can- 
didate ought to go far out of his way to destroy such 
fancies.” 

“ A very good word, fancies ! Are you going to make 
your famous speech over again ? ” said Everard with the 
ready sneer. 

“ Can you deny that what I have spoken is the 
truth ?” 

“It is not necessary that he should,” Livingstone 
answered quietly. “ I am not interested in what some 
people say of me. Tell Mr. Sullivan I am ready to ac- 


93 

cept the nomination, but that I never retract, never de- 
sert a position.” 

This young man nettled and irritated the Mayor. His 
insolence, the insolence of his own class, was so subtly and 
politely expressed, that no fault could be found ; and, 
though his inexperience was evident, he handled a ready 
blade and made no secret of his disdain. Arthur did not 
know to what point of the compass the short conversation 
had carried them, but he took a boy’s foolish delight in 
teasing the irritated men. 

“ It all comes to this : you must nominate yourself,” 
said Everard. 

“ And divide the party ? ” 

“I am not sure it would divide the party,” Livingstone 
condescended to say, for he was amused at the simple 
horror of Dillon. “It might unite it under different cir- 
cumstances.” 

“ That’s the remark of a statesman. And it would rid 
us, Arthur Dillon, of Sullivan and his kind, who should 
be running a gin-mill in Hester street.” 

“If he didn’t have a finer experience in politics, and a 
bigger brain for managing men than any three in the city,” 
retorted Arthur icily. “ He is too wise to bring the pre- 
judices of race and creed into city politics. If Your Honor 
runs on an independent ticket, the Irish will vote against 
you to a rpan. One would think that far-seeing men, in- 
terested in the city and careful of the future, would hesi- 
tate to make dangerous rivalries of this sort. Is there not 
enough bigotry now ? ” 

“ Not that I know,” said the Mayor with a pretence of 
indifference. “We are all eager to keep the races in good 
humor, but at the same time to prevent the ascendancy of 
a particular race, except the native. It is the Irish to-day. 
It will be the Germans to-morrow. Once checked 
thoroughly, there will be no trouble in the future.” 

The interview ended with these words. By that time 
Arthur had gone beyond his political depth, and was glad 
to make his adieu to the great man. He retained one 
honest conclusion from the interview. 

“Birmingham can thank this pig-headed gentleman,” 
said he to Everard, “for making him mayor of New 
York. 

John snorted his contempt of the statement and its 


94 


abettors. The report of Arthur disquieted the Chief and 
his counselors, who assembled to hear and discuss it. 

“ It’s regrettable,” was Sullivan’s opinion. “ Living- 
stone makes a fine figure in a campaign. He has an at- 
tractive name. His independence is popular, and does no 
harm. He hasn’t the interests of the party at heart though. 
The question now is, can we persuade the Irish to overlook 
his peculiarities about the green and St. Patrick’s 
Day ? ” 

“A more pertinent question,” Vandervelt said after a 
respectful silence, “ would be as to the next available man. 
I favor Birmingham.” 

“ And I,” echoed the Senator. 

Arthur listened to the amicable discussion that followed 
with thoughts not for the candidate, but for the three men 
who thus determined the history of the city for the next 
two years. The triumvirs ! Cloudy scenes of half-for- 
gotten history rose before him, strange names uttered 
themselves. Mark Antony and young Octavius and weak 
Lepidus ! He felt suddenly the seriousness of life, and 
wonder at the ways of men ; for he had never stood so near 
the little gods that harness society to their policies, never 
till now had he seen with his own eyes how the world is 
steered. The upshot of endless talk and trickery was the 
nomination of Birmingham, and the placing of an inde- 
pendent ticket in the field with the Mayor at its head. 

“Now for the fun,” said Grahame. “It’s going to be 
a big fight. If you want to see the working out of princi- 
ples keep close to me while the fight is on, and I’ll ex- 
plain things.” 

The explanation was intricate and long. What did not 
matter he forgot, but the picturesque things, which touched 
his own life afterwards very closely, he kept in mind. 
Trotting about with the journalist they encountered one 
day a cleric of distinguished appearance. 

“ Take a good look at him. He’s the man that steers 
Livingstone.” 

“ I thought it was John Everard.” 

“John doesn’t even steer himself,” said Grahame sav- 
agely. “ But take a view of the bishop.” 

Arthur saw a face whose fine features were shaded by 
melancholy, tinged with jaundice, gloomy in expression ; 
the mouth drooped at the corners, and the eyes were 


95 


heavy ; one could hardly picture that face lighted by 
humor or fancy. 

“ We refuse to discuss certain things in political circles 
here,” Grahame continued. “ One of them is the muddle 
made of politics every little while by dragging in religion. 
The bishop. Bishop Bradford is his name, never loses a 
chance to make a mud pie. The independent ticket is 
his pie this year. He secured Livingstone to bake it, for 
he’s no baker himself. He believes in God, but still more 
does he believe that the Catholics of this city should be 
kept in the backyard of society. If they eat his pie, their 
only ambition will be to live in an American backyard. 
No word of this ever finds its way into the journals, but 
it is the secret element in New York politics.” 

“ I thought everything got into the newspapers,” Arthur 
complained. <f Blamed if I can get hold of the thing.” 

“ You’re right, everything goes into the sewers, but not 
in a formal way. What’s the reason for the independent 
ticket ? Printed : revolt against a domineering boss. 
Private : to shake the Irish in politics. Do you see ? 
Now, here is a campaign going on. It began last week. 
It ends in November. But the other campaign has neither 
beginning nor end. I’ll give you object-lessons. There’s 
where the fun comes in.” 

The first object-lesson brought Arthur to the gospel- 
hall managed by a gentleman whom he had not seen or 
thought of since the pleasant celebration of St. Patrick’s 
day. Rev. Mr. McMeeter, evangelist of the expansive 
countenance, was warming up his gathering of sinners 
that night with a twofold theme : hell for sinners, and 
the same, embroidered intensely, for Rome. 

“ He handles it as Laocoon did the serpents,” whispered 
Grahame. 

In a very clerical costume, on a small platform, the 
earnest man writhed, twisted, and sweated, with every 
muscle in strain, his face working in convulsions, his lungs 
beating heaven with sound. He outdid the Trojan hero 
in the leaps across the platform, the sinuous gestures, 
the rendings of the enemy ; until that moment when he 
drew the bars of hell for the unrepentant, and flung 
Rome into the abyss. This effective performance, in- 
artistic and almost grotesque, never fell to the level of the 
ridiculous, for native power was strong in the man. The 


96 


peroration raised Livingstone to the skies, chained Sul- 
livan in the lowest depths of the Inferno, and introduced 
as a terrible example a brand just rescued from the burn- 
ing. 

“ Study her, observe her,” said Grahame. “ These 
brands have had curious burnings.” 

She spoke with ease, a little woman in widow’s weeds, 
coquettishly displaying silken brown hair under the 
niching of a demure bonnet. Taking her own account — 
“ Which some reporter wrote for her no doubt,” Grahame 
commented — she had been a sinner, a slave of Rome, a 
castaway bound hand and foot to degrading superstition, 
until rescued by the noblest of men and led by the spirit into 
the great work of rescuing others from the grinding 
slavery of the Church of Rome. Very tenderly she ap- 
pealed to the audience to help her. The prayers of the 
saints were about to be answered. God had raised up a 
leader who would strike the shackles oft* the limbs of the 
children. The leader, of course, was Mayor Livingstone. 

“ You see how the spirit works,” said Grahame. 

Then came an interruption. The Brand introduced a 
girl of twelve as an illustration of her work of rescue 
among the dreadful hirelings of Rome. A feeble and 
ragged woman in the audience rose and cried out that the 
child was her lost Ellen. The little girl made a leap from 
the platform but was caught dexterously by the Brand 
and flung behind the scenes. A stout woman shook her 
fist in the Brand’s face and called her out of her name ; 
and also gave the evangelist a slap in the stomach which 
taught him a new kind of convulsion. His aids fell upon 
the stout woman, the tough men of the audience fell upon 
the aids, the mother of Ellen began shrieking, and some 
respectable people ran to the door to call the police. A 
single policeman entered cooly, and laid about him with 
his stick so as to hit the evangelists with frequency. Foi 
a few minutes all things turned to dust, confusion, and 
bad language. The policeman restored order, dismissed 
Ellen with her mother, calmed the stout woman, and cau- 
tioned the host. The Brand had watched the scene 
calmly and probably enjoyed it. When Arthur left with 
Grahame Mr. McMeeter had just begun an address which 
described the policeman as a satellite, a janizary, and 
a pretorian of Rome. 


97 


“ They’re doing a very neat job for Livingstone,” said 
Grahame. “ Maybe there are fifty such places about the 
town. Little Ellen was lucky to see her mother again. 
Most of these stolen children are shipped off to the west, 
and turned into very good Protestants, while their mothers 
grieve to death.” 

“ Livingstone ought to be above such work.” 

“ He is. He has nothing in common with a kidnapper 
Uke McMeeter. He just accepts what is thrown at him. 
McMeeter throws his support at him. Only high-class 
methods attract a man like Livingstone. Sister Claire, 
the Escaped Hun, is one of his methods. We’ll go and 
see her too. She lectures at Chickering Hall to-night . . . 
comes on about half after nine — tells all about her escape 
from a prison in a convent . . . how she was enslaved . . . 
how sin thrives in convents . . . and appeals for help for 
other nuns not yet escaped . . . with reference to the coming 
election and the great deliverer, Livingstone . . . makes a 
pile of money.” 

“ You seem envious,” Arthur hinted. 

“ Who wouldn’t ? I can’t make a superfluous cent being 
virtuous, and Sister Claire clears thousands by lying about 
her neighbors.” 

They took a seat among the reporters, in front of a de- 
corous, severe, even godly audience, who awaited the com- 
ing of the Escaped Hun with religious interest. Amid a 
profound stillness, she came upon the stage from a rear 
door, ushered in by an impressive clergyman ; and walked 
forward, a startling figure, to the speaker’s place, where 
she stood with the dignity and modesty of her profession, 
and a self-possession all her own. 

“ Stunning,” Grahame whispered. “ Costume incorrect, 
but dramatic.” 

Her dress and veil were of pale yellow, some woolen 
stuff, the coif and gamp were of white linen, and a red 
cross marked the entire front of her dress, the arms of the 
cross resting on her bosom. Arthur stared. Her face of 
a sickly pallor had deep circles under the eyes, but seemed 
plump enough for her years. For a moment she stood 
quietly, with drooping head and uplifted eyes, her hands 
clasped, a picture of beauty. After a gasp and a pause the 
audience broke into warm applause long continued. In a 
sweet and sonorous voice she made her speech, and told her 

7 


98 


story. It sounded like the Lady of the Lake at times. 
Grahame yawned — he had heard it so often. Arthur 
gathered that she had somewhere suffered the tortures of 
the Inquisition, that innocent girls were enjoying the 
same experience in the convents of the country, that they 
were deserted both of God and man, and that she alone 
had taken up their cause. She was a devoted Catholic, 
and could never change her faith ; if she appealed to her 
audience, it was only to interest them in behalf of her suf- 
fering sisters. 

“That’s the artistic touch,” Grahame whispered again. 
“ But it won’t pay. Her revelations must get more 
salaciousness after election.” 

Arthur hardly heard him. Where had he seen and 
heard this woman before ? Though he could not recall 
a feature of her face, form, dress, manner, yet he had the 
puzzling sense of having met her long ago, that her per- 
sonality was not unfamiliar. Still her features baffled the 
sense. He studied her in vain. When her lecture ended, 
with drooping head and clasped hands, she modestly with- 
drew amid fervid acclamations. 

Strange and bewildering were the currents of intrigue 
that made up a campaign in the great city ; not to mention 
the hidden forces whose current no human could discern. 
Arthur went about exercising his talent for oratory in 
behalf of Birmingham, and found consolation in the 
sincere applause of humble men, and of boys subdued by 
the charm of his manner. He learned that the true 
orator expresses not only his own convictions and emotions, 
but also the unspoken thoughts, the mute feelings, the 
cloudy convictions of the simple multitude. He is their 
interpreter to themselves. The thought gave him rever- 
ence for that power which had lain long dormant in him 
until sorrow waked its noble harmonies. The ferment in 
the city astonished him. The very boys fought in the 
vacant lots, and reveled in the strategy of crooked 
streets and blind alleys. Kindly women, suddenly re- 
minded that the Irish were a race of slaves, banged their 
doors, and flirted their skirts in scorn. Workmen lost their 
job here and there, mates fought at the workbench, the 
bully found his excuse to beat the weak, all in the name of 
Livingstone. The small business men, whose profits came 
from both sides, did severe penance for their sins of 


99 

sanded sugar and deficient weight. The police found their 
nerves overstrained. 

To him the entire drama of the campaign had the in- 
terest of an impossible romance. It was a struggle be- 
between a poor people, cast out by one nation, fighting for 
a footing on new soil, and a successful few, who had for- 
gotten the sufferings, the similar struggle of their fathers. 
He rejoiced when Birmingham won. He had not a single 
regret for the defeat of Livingstone, though it hurt him 
that a bad cause should have found its leader in his kins- 
man. 


100 


CHAPTER XI. 

AN ENDICOTT HEIR. 

Meanwhile what of the world and the woman he had 
left behind ? A year had passed, his new personality had 
begun to fit, and no word or sign direct from the Endicott 
circle had reached him. Time seemed to have created a 
profound silence between him and them. Indirectly, how- 
ever, through the journals, he caught fleeting glimpses of 
that rage which had filled Sonia with hatred and despair. 
A description of his person appeared as an advertisement, 
with a reward of five thousand dollars for information that 
would lead to the discovery of his whereabouts, or to a 
certainty of his death. At another time the journals which 
printed both reward and notice, had a carefully worded 
plea from his Aunt Lois for letter or visit to soothe the 
anxieties of her last days. He shook over this reminder 
of her faithful love until he analyzed the circumstances 
which had probably led to this burst of publicity. Early in 
July a letter had informed Sonia of his visit to Wisconsin ; 
two months later a second letter described, in one word, 
her character, and in six her sentence : adulteress, you shall 
never see me again. A week's work by her lawyers would 
have laid bare the fact that the Endicott estate had van- 
ished, and that her own small income was her sole pos- 
session. 

A careful study of his motives would have revealed in 
part his plans, and a detective had probably spent a month 
in a vain pursuit. The detective's report must have 
startled even the lawyers. All clues led to nothing. Sonia 
had no money to throw away, nor would she dare to appeal 
too strongly to Aunt Lois and Horace Endicott's friends, 
who might learn too much, if she were too candid. The 
two who loved him were not yet really worried by his dis- 
appearance, since they had his significant letter. In time 
their confidence would give place to anxiety, and heaven 


101 


and earth would be moved to uncover his hiding-place. 
This loving notice was a trap set by Sonia. On the 
road which led from Mulberry Street to Cambridge, 
from the home of Anne Dillon to the home of Lois Endi- 
cott, Sonia’s detective lay in wait for the returning steps 
of the lost husband, and Sonia’s eyes devoured the shadows, 
her ears drank in every sound. He laughed, he grew 
warm with the feeling of triumph. She would watch and 
listen in vain. The judgment-seat of God was the ap- 
pointment he had made for her. 

He began now to wonder at the completeness of his own 
disappearance. His former self seemed utterly beyond the 
reach of men. The detectives had not only failed to find 
him, they had not even fallen upon his track by accident. 
How singular that an Irish colony in the metropolis should 
be so far in fact and sympathy from the aristocracy. 
Sonia and her detectives would have thought of Greenland 
and the Eskimos, Ashanti, Alaska, the court of China, as 
possible refuges, but never of Cherry Street and the chil- 
dren of Erin, who were farther off from the Endicotts and 
the Livingstones than the head-hunters of Borneo. Had 
her detectives by any chance met him on the road, prepared 
for any disguise, how dumb and deaf and sightless would 
they become when his position as the nephew of Senator 
Dillon, the secretary of Sullivan, the orator of Tammany 
Hall, and the pride of Cherry Hill, shone upon them. 

This triumph he would have enjoyed the more could he 
have seen the effect which the gradual change in his per- 
sonality had produced on Monsignor O’Donnell, for whom 
the Endicott episode proved the most curious exj>erience of 
his career. Its interest was discounted by the responsibility 
imposed upon him. His only comfort iay in the thought 
that at any moment he could wash his hands of the affair, 
before annoying or dangerous consequences began to 
threaten. He suffered from constant misgivings. The 
drama of a change in personality went on daily under his 
eyes, and almost frightened him by its climaxes, which 
were more distinct to him than to Endicott. First, the 
pale, worn, savage, and blood-haunted boy who came to 
him in his first agony ; then the melancholy, bearded, yet 
serene invalid who lay in Anne Dillon’s house and was 
welcomed as her son ; next, the young citizen of the Irish 
colony, known as a wealthy and lucky Californian, bid- 


102 


ding for honors as the nephew of Senator Dillon ; and 
last the surprising orator, the idol of the Irish people, 
their devoted friend, who spared neither labor nor money 
in serving them. 

The awesome things in this process were the fading 
away of the Endicott and the growing distinctness of 
the Dillon. At first the old personality lay concealed 
under the new as under a mask ; but something like ab- 
sorption by degrees obliterated the outlines of Endicott and 
developed the Dillon. Daily he noticed the new features 
which sprang into sight between sunrise and sunrise. It 
was not only the fashion of dress, of body, and of speech, 
which mimics may adopt ; but also a change of counte- 
nance, a turn of mind which remained permanent, change 
of gesture, a deeper color of skin, greater decision in 
movement ; in fact, so many and so minute mutations that 
he could not recall one-tenth the number. Endicott for in- 
stance had possessed an eloquent, lustrous, round eye, 
with an expression delightfully indolent ; in Dillon the 
roundness and indolence gave way to a malicious wrinkle 
at the outside corners, which gave his glance a touch of 
bitterness. Endicott had been gracefully slow in his 
movement; Dillon was nervous and alert. A fascination 
of terror held Monsignor as Arthur Dillon grew like 
his namesake more and more. Out of what depths had 
this new personality been conjured up ? What would be 
the end of it ? He said to himself that a single in- 
cident, the death of Sonia, would be enough to destroy 
on the instant this Dillon and resurrect the Endicott. 
Still he was not sure, and the longer this terrible process 
continued the less likely a change back to the normal. 

Morbid introspection had become a part of the young 
maids pain. The study of the changes in himself proved 
more pleasant than painful. His mind swung between bitter 
depression, and warm, natural joy. His moments of deepest 
joy were coincident with an interesting condition of mind. 
On certain days he completely forgot the Endicott and be- 
came the Dillon almost perfectly. Then he no longer 
acted a part, but was absorbed in it. Most of the time 
he was Endicott playing the role of Dillon, without effort 
and with much pleasure, indeed, but still an actor. When 
memory and grief fled from him together, as on St. 
Patrick’s Day, his new personality dominated each instant 


103 


of consciousness, and banished thought of the old. Then 
a new spirit rose in him ; not merely a feeling of relief 
from pain, but a positive influence which led him to do 
surprising and audacious things, like the speech at the 
banquet. It was a divine forgetfulness, which he prayed 
might be continuous. He loved to think that some years 
of his life would see the new personality in full possession 
of him, while the old would be but a feeble memory, a 
mere dream of an impossible past. Wonderful, if the 
little things of the day, small but innumerable, should 
wipe out in the end an entire youth that took twenty 
years in building. What is the past after all but a vague 
"horizon made emphatic by the peaks of memory ? What 
is the future but a bare plain with no emphasis at all ? 
Man lives only in the present, like the God whose spirit 
breathes in him. 

Sonia was bent on his not forgetting, however. His 
heart died within him when he read in the journals the 
prominent announcement of the birth of a son to the lost 
Horace Endicott, whose woful fate still troubled the short 
memory of editors. A son ! He crushed the paper in his 
anguish and fell again into the old depression. Oh, how 
thoroughly had God punished the hidden crimes of this 
lost woman ! A child would have saved her, and in her 
hatred of him she had ... he always refused to utter to 
himself the thought which here rose before his mind. His 
head bent in agony. This child was not his, perhaps not 
even hers. She had invented it as a trap for him. Were 
it really his little one, his flesh and blood, how eagerly he 
would have thrown off his present life and flown to its 
rescue from such a mother ! 

Sonia did not hope for such a result. It was her 
fraudulent mortgage on the future and its possibilities. 
The child would be heir to his property ; would have the 
sympathy and inherit the possessions of his Aunt Lois ; 
would lull the suspicions concerning its mother, and 
conciliate the gossips ; and might win him back from 
hiding, if only to expose the fraud and take shame from 
the Endicotts. What a clever and daring criminal was this 
woman ! With a cleverness always at fault because of her 
rare unscrupulousness. Even wickedness has its delicacy, 
its modesty, its propriety, which a criminal respects in 
proportion to his genius for crime. Sonia offended all in 


104 


her daring, and lost at every turn. This trap would catch 
her own feet. A child ! A son ! He shuddered at the 
thought, and thanked God that he had escaped a new 
dishonor. His blood would never mingle with the puddle 
in Sonia’s veins. 

He would not permit her to work this iniquity, and to 
check her he must risk final success in his plan of 
disappearance by violating the first principle of the art : 
that there be no further connection with the past. The 
detectives were watching the path by which he would 
return, counting perhaps upon his rage over this fraudulent 
heir. He must give them their opportunity, if he would 
destroy Sonia’s schemes against Aunt Lois, but felt sure 
that they would be unprepared to seize it, even if they 
dreamed it at hand. He had a plan which might accom- 
plish his object without endangering his position ; and 
one night he slipped away from the city on a train for 
Boston, got off at a lonely station, and plunged into the 
darkness without a word for a sleepy station-master. 

At dawn after two hours’ walk he passed the pond which 
had once seemed to him the door of escape. Poor old 
friend ! Its gray face lay under the morning sky like the 
face of a dead saint, luminous in its outlines, as if the glory 
of heaven shone through ; still, oh, so still, and deep as 
if it mirrored immensity. Little complaining murmurs, 
like the whimperings of a sleepy child, rose up from the 
reeds, sweeter than any songs. He paused an instant to 
compare the then and now, but fled with a groan as the 
old sorrow, the old madness, suddenly seized him with 
the powerful grip of that horrid time. In fact, every step 
of the way to Martha’s house was torture. He saw that 
for him there were other dangers than Sonia and her 
detectives, in leaving the refuge which God had provided 
for him. Oh, never could he be too grateful for the 
blessing, never could he love enough the holy man who 
had suggested it, never could he repay the dear souls 
whose love had made it beautiful. They rose up before 
him as he hurried down the road, the lovable, humorous, 
rollicking, faulty clan ; and he would not have exchanged 
them for the glories of a court, for the joys of Arcady. 

The sun and he found Martha busy with household 
duties. She did not know him and he said not a word to 
enlighten her ; he was a messenger from a friend who 


105 


asked of her a service, the carrying of a letter to a certain 
woman in Boston ; and no one should see her deliver the 
letter, or learn her name, or know her coming and going ; 
for her friend, in hiding, and pursued, must not be dis- 
covered. Then she knew that he came from Horace, and 
shed tears that he lived well and happy, but could not 
believe, when he had made himself known, that this was 
the same man of a year before. They spent a happy day 
together in perfecting the details of her visit to Aunt 
Lois, which had to be accomplished with great care and 
secrecy. There was to be no correspondence between 
them. In two weeks he would come again to hear a re- 
port of her success or failure. If she were not at home, 
he would come two weeks later. She could tell Aunt 
Lois whatever the old lady desired to hear about him, and 
assure her that nothing would induce him ever to return 
to his former life. The letter said as much. When night 
came they went off over the hills together to the nearest rail- 
way station, where he left her to find her way to the city, 
while he went on to a different station and took a late train 
to New York. By these methods he felt hopeful that his 
violation of the rules of disappearing would have no evil 
results for him, beyond that momentary return of the old 
anguish which had frightened him more than Sonia’s de- 
tectives. 

In four weeks old Martha returned from her mission, 
and told this story as they sat in the pleasant kitchen near 
a cheery fire. 

“ I rented a room in the neighborhood of your Aunt 
Lois’ house, and settled myself to wait for the most 
natural opportunity to meet her. It was long in coming, 
for she had been sick ; but when she got better I saw 
her going out to ride, and a little later she took to 
walking in the park with her maid. There she often sat, 
and chatted with passing children, or with old women like 
herself, poor old things trying to get life from the air. 
The maid is a spy. She noted every soul about, and had 
an extra glance for me when your aunt spoke to me, after I 
had waited three weeks for a word. I told her my story, 
as I told it to you. She was interested, and I must go to her 
house to take lunch with her. I refused. I was not used 
to such invitations, but I would call on her at other times. 
And the maid listened the more. She was never out of 


106 


hearing, nor out of sight, until Aunt Lois would get into 
a rage, and bid her take a walk. It was then I handed 
her the letter under my shawl. The maid’s eyes could 
not see through the shawl. I told her what you bid me : 
that you would never return again, no more than if you 
were dead, that she must burn the letter so that none 
would know a letter had been received and burned, and 
that she would understand many things when she had 
read it ; most particular that she was surrounded by spies, 
and that she must go right on as if nothing had happened, 
and deceive as she had been deceived. 

“ I met her only twice after that. I told her my plan 
to deceive the maid. I was a shrewd beggar studying to 
get money out of her, with a story about going to my son in 
Washington. She bid the maid secretly find out if I was 
worthy, and I saw the maid in private, and begged her to 
report of me favorably, and she might have half the 
money, and then I would go away. And the maid was 
deceived, for she brought me fifty dollars from your aunt, 
and kept thirty. She would not give even the twenty 
until I had promised to go away without complaint. So 
I went away, and stayed with a friend in Worcester. 
Since I came home I have not seen or heard of any stranger 
in this neighborhood. So that it is likely I have not been 
suspected or followed. And the letter was burned. And 
at the first fair chance vonr Aunt will go to Europe, taking 
with her her two .dearest relatives. She called them 
Sonia Endicott and her child Horace, and she would keep 
them with her while she lived. At the last she sent you 
her love, though she could not understand some of the 
things you were doing, but that was your own business. 
And she never shed a tear, but kept smiling, and her smile 
was terrible.” 

He could believe that. Sonia might as well have lived 
in the glare of Vesuvius as in the enlightened smile of 
Aunt Lois. The schemer was now in her own toils, and 
only at the death of the brave old woman would she know 
her failure. Oh, how sweet and great is even human 
justice ! 

“ If I do not see you again, Martha,” said Arthur as he 
kissed the dear old mother farewell, “ remember that I 
am happy, and that you made me so .” 


107 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE HATE O'F HAHNIBAL. 

Oweh Ledwith had a theory concerning the invasion 
of Ireland, which he began to expound that winter. Since 
few know much more about the military art than the firing 
of a shotgun, he won the scorn of all except his daughter 
and Arthur Dillon. In order to demonstrate his theory 
Ledwith was willing to desert journalism, to fit out a 
small ship, and to sail into an Irish harbor from Hew 
York and back, without asking leave from* any govern- 
ment ; if only the money were supplied by the patriots to 
buy the ship and pay the sailors. His theory held that 
a fleet of many ships might sail unquestioned from the 
unused harbors of the American coast, and land one hun- 
dred thousand armed men in Ireland, where a blow might 
be struck such as never had been yet in the good cause. 
Military critics denied the possibility of such an invasion. 
He would have liked to perform the feat with a single 
ship, to convince them. 

“ I have a suspicion/’ he said one night to his daughter, 
“that this young Dillon would give me five thousand dol- 
lars for the asking. He is a Fenian now.” 

“ Is it possible ? ” Honora cried in astonishment. 

“ Well, I don’t see any reason for wonder, Kora. He 
has been listening to me for three months, vaporing over 
the wrongs of Ireland ; he’s of Celtic blood ; he has been 
an adventurer in California ; he has the money, it would 
seem. Why, the wonder would be if he did not do what 
all the young fellows are doing.” 

“ I have not quite made up my mind about him yet, 
father,” the young woman said thoughtfully. 

“ He’s all man,” said the father. 

“ True, but a man who is playing a part.” 

He laid down his pipe in his surprise, but she smiled 
assuringly. 


108 


“Well, it’s fine acting, if you call it so, my love. In 
a little over a year he has made himself the pride of 
Cherry Hill. Your great friend,” — this with a sniff — 
“ Monsignor O’Donnell, is his sponsor. He speaks like 
the orator born and with sincerity, though he knows little 
of politics. But he has ideas. Then did you ever meet 
a merrier lad ? Such a singer and dancer, such a favorite 
among boys and girls ! He seems to be as lovable as his 
uncle the Senator, and the proof of it is that all confide 
in him. However, I have faith in your instincts, Nora. 
What do they say ? ” 

“ He looks at us all like a spectator sitting in front of 
a stage. Of course I have heard the people talk about 
him. He is a popular idol, except to his mother who 
seems to be afraid of him. He has moods of sadness, 
gloom, and Miss Conyngham told me she would wager he 
left a wife in California. While all like him, each one 
has a curious thing to tell about him. They all say it is 
the sickness which he had on coming home, and that the 
queer things are leaving him. The impression he gives 
me is that of one acting a part. I must say it is fading 
every day, but it hinders me from feeling quite satisfied 
about him.” 

“Well, one thing is in his favor : he listens to me,” 
said Led with. “ He is one of the few men to whom I am 
not a crazy dreamer, crazy with love of Erin and hate of 
her shameless foe.” 

“ And I love him for that, father,” she said tenderly. 
“ There is no acting in his regard and esteem for yon, 
nothing insincere in his liking for us, even if we cannot 
quite understand it. For we are queer. Daddy,” putting 
her arms about him. “ Much love for our old home and 
much thinking how to help it, and more despair and 
worry, have shut us off from the normal life, until we 
have forgotten the qualities which make people liked. 
Poor Daddy ! ” 

“ Better that than doing nothing,” he said sadly. 
“ To struggle and fight once in a while mean living ; to 
sit still would be to die.” 

Arthur was ushered in just then by the servant, and 
took his place comfortably before the fire. One could 
see the regard which they felt for him ; on the part of 


109 


Ledwith it was almost affection. Deeply and sincerely 
he returned their kindly feeling. 

He had a host of reasons for his regard. Their position 
seemed as strange to the humdrum world as his own. 
They were looked on as queer people, who lived outside 
the ruts for the sake of an enslaved nation. The idea 
of losing three meals a day and a fixed home for a hopeless 
cause tickled the humor of the practical. Their devotion 
to an idea hardly surpassed their devotion to each other, 
lie mourned for her isolation, she mourned over his fail- 
ures to free his native land. 

“ I have almost given the cause up,” he said once to 
Arthur, “ because I feel my helplessness. I cannot agree 
with the leaders nor they with me. But if I gave up she 
T?ould worry herself to death over my loss of hope. I 
keep on, half on her account, half in the hope of striking 
the real thing at the end.” 

“ It seems to be also the breath of her life,” said Arthur. 

“No, it is not,” the father replied. “Have you not 
heard her talk of your friend, Louis Everard ? How she 
dwells on his calling, and the happiness of it ! My poor 
child, her whole heart yearns for the cloister. She loves 
all such things. I have urged her to follow her inclina- 
tions, though I know it would be the stroke of death for 
me, but she will not leave me until I die.” 

“ You must not take us too seriously,” she had once said, 
“ in this matter of Irish liberties. My father is hopelessly 
out of the current, for his health is only fair, and he has 
quarreled with his leaders. 1 have given up hope of 
achieving anything. But if he gives up he dies. So, I 
encourage him and keep marching on, in spite of the bit- 
terest disappointments. Perhaps something may come of 
it in the end.” 

“Not a doubt of it,” said Arthur, uttering a great 
thought. “Every tear, every thought, every heart-throb, 
every drop of sweat and blood, expended for human liberty, 
must be gathered up by God and laid away in the treasury 
of heaven. The despots of time shall pay the interest of 
that fund here or there.” 

A woman whose ideals embraced the freedom of an op- 
pressed people, devotion to her father, and love for the 
things of God, would naturally have a strong title to the 
respect of Arthur Dillon ; and she was, besides, a beautiful 


110 


woman, who spoke great things in a voice so sweetly re- 
sponsive to her emotions that father and friend listened 
as to music. The Ledwiths had a comfortable income, 
when they set to work, earned by his clever pen and her 
exquisite voice. The young man missed none of her 
public appearances, though he kept the fact to himself. 
She was on those occasions the White Lady in earnest. 
Her art had warmth indeed, but the coldness and aloof- 
ness of exalted purity put her beyond the zone of desire ; 
a snowy peak, distinct to the eye, but inaccessible. When 
they were done with greetings Arthur brought up a spe- 
cific subject. 

“It has gone about that I have become a Fenian,” he 
said, “and I have been called on to explain to many what 
chance the movement has of succeeding. There was 
nothing in the initiation which gave me that information.” 

“ You can say : none,” Ledwith answered bitterly. 
“ And if you quote me as your authority there will be 
many new members in the brotherhood.” 

“ Then why keep up the movement, if nothing is to 
come of it ? ” 

“ The fighting must go on,” Ledwith replied, “ from 
generation to generation in spite of failure. The Fenian 
movement will fail like all its predecessors. The only 
reason for its continuance is that its successor may suc- 
ceed. Step by step ! Few nations are as lucky as this 
to win in the first fight. Our country is the unluckiest of 
all. Her battle has been on seven hundred years.” 

“But I think there must be more consolation in the 
fight than your words imply,” Arthur declared. “ There 
must be a chance, a hope of winning.” 

“ The hope has never died but the chance does not yet 
exist, and there is no chance for the Fenians,” Ledwith 
answered with emphasis. “ The consolation lies for 
most of us in keeping up the fight. It is a joy to 
let our enemy, England, know, and to make her feel, 
that we hate her still, and that our hate keeps pace with 
her advancing greatness. It is pleasant to prove to her, 
even by an abortive rising, that all her crimes, rogueries, 
and diplomacies against us have been vain to quench 
our hate. We have been scattered over the world, but 
our hate has been intensified. It is joy to see her foam at 
the mouth like a wild beast, then whine to the world over 


Ill 


the ingratitude of the Irish ; to hear the representatives of 
her tax-payers howl in Parliament at the expense of put- 
ting down regular rebellions ; to see the landlords flying 
out of the country they have ravaged, and the Orangemen 
White with the fear of slaughter. Then these movements 
are an education. The children are trained to a know- 
ledge of the position, to hatred of the English power, and 
their generation takes up the fight where the preceding 
left it.” 

f< Hate is a terrible thing,” said the young man. “ Is 
England so hateful then ? ” 

Honora urged him by looks to change the subject, for 
her father knew no bounds in speaking of his country's 
enemy, but he would not lift his eyes to her face. He 
wished to hear Owen Ledwith express his feelings with 
full vent on the dearest question to his heart. The man 
warmed up as he spoke, fire in his eyes, his cheeks, his 
words, and gestures. 

“ She is a fiend from hell,” he replied, hissing the words 
quietly. Deep emotion brought exterior calm to Led- 
with. “ But that is only a feeling of mine. Let us deal 
with the facts. Like the fabled vampire England hangs 
upon the throat of Ireland, battening on her blood. 
Populous England, vanishing Ireland ! What is the mean- 
ing of it ? One people remains at home by the millions, 
the other flies to other lands by the millions. Because 
the hell-witch is good to her own. For them the trade of 
the world, the opening of mines, the building of factories, 
the use of every natural power, the coddling of every 
artificial power. They go abroad only to conquer and tax 
the foreigner for the benefit of those at home. Their har- 
bors are filled with ships, and their treasury with the gold 
of the world. For our people, there is only permission to 
work the soil, for the benefit of absentee landlords, or 
encouragement to depart to America. No mines, no 
factories, no commerce, no harbors, no ships, in a word 
no future. So the Irish do not stay at home. The laws 
of England accomplished this destruction of trade, of art, 
of education, oh, say it at once, of life. Damnable laws, 
fashioned by the horrid greed of a rich people, that could 
not bear to see a poor people grow comfortable. They 
called over to their departments of trade, of war, of art, 
to court, camp, and studio, our geniuses, gave them 


m 


fame, and dubbed them Englishmen ; the castaways, the 
Irish in America and elsewhere are known as ‘ the mere 
Irish.’” 

“ It is very bitter,” said Arthur, seeing the unshed 
tears in Honora’s eyes. 

“ I wonder how we bear it,” Led with continued. “ We 
have not the American spirit, you may be sure. I can 
fancy the colonists of a hundred years back meeting an 
Irish situation ; the men who faced the Indian risings, 
and, worse, the subduing of the wilderness. For them it 
would have been equal rights and privileges and chances, 
or the bottom of the sea for one of the countries. But we 
are poetic and religious, and murderous only when a 
Cromwell or a Castlereagh opens hell for us. However, 
the past is nothing ; it is the present which galls us. The 
gilding of the gold and the painting of the lily are sym- 
bols of our present sufferings. After stripping and roast- 
ing us at home, this England, this hell-witch sends 
abroad into all countries her lies and slanders about us. 
Her spies, her professors, her gospellers, her agents, her 
sympathizers everywhere, can tell you by the yard of our 
natural inferiority to the Chinese. Was it not an Ameri- 
can bishop who protested in behalf of the Chinese of San 
Francisco that they were more desirable immigrants than 
the sodden Irish ? Grod ! this clean, patient, laborious 
race, whose chastity is notorious, whose Christianity has 
withstood the desertion of Christ ” 

Honora gave a half scream at the blasphemy, but at 
once controlled herself. 

££ I take that back, child — it was only madness,” Led- 
with said. <£ You see, Dillon, how scarred my soul is with 
this sorrow. But the bishop and the Chinese ! Not a 
word against that unfortunate people, whose miseries are 
greater even than ours,^ and spring from the same sources. 
At least they are not lied about, and a bishop, forsooth ! 
can compare them, pagans in thought and act and habit 
though they be, with the most moral and religious people 
in the world, to his own shame. It is the English lie 
working. The Irish are inferior, and of a low, groveling, 
filthy nature ; they are buried both in ignorance and 
superstition; their ignorance can be seen in their hatred 
of British rule, and their refusal to accept the British 
religion ; wherever they go in the wide world, they reduce 


113 


the average of decency and intelligence and virtue ; for 
twenty years these lies have been sung in the ears of the 
nations, until only the enemies of England have a wel- 
come for us. Behold our position in this country. Just 
tolerated. No place open to us except that of cleaning 
the sewers. Every soul of us compelled to fight, as Bir- 
mingham did the other day, for a career, and to fight against 
men like Livingstone, who should be our friends. And 
in the hearts of the common people a hatred for us, a dis- 
gust, even a horror, not inspired by the leprous Chinese. 
We have earned all this hatred and scorn and opposition 
from England, because in fighting with her we have ob- 
served the laws of humanity, when we should have wiped 
her people off the face of the earth as Saul smote Agag 
and his corrupt people, as Cromwell treated us. Do you 
wonder that I hate this England far more than I hate sin, 
or the devil, or any monstrous creature which feeds upon 
man.” 

“ I do not wonder,” said Arthur. “ With you there 
is always an increasing hatred of England ? ” 

“ Until death,” cried Ledwith, leaping from his seat, as 
if the fire of hate tortured him, and striding about the 
room. “ To fight every minute against this monster, to 
fight in every fashion, to irritate her, to destroy a grain of 
her influence, in a single mind, in a little community, to 
expose her pretense, her sham virtues, her splendid hypo- 
crisy, these are the breath of my life. That hate will 
never perish until ” 

He paused as if in painful thought, and passed his hand 
over his forehead. 

“ Until the wrongs of centuries have been avenged,” 
said Arthur. Ledwith sat down with a scornful laugh. 

“ That's a sentence from the orations of our patriotic 
orators,” he sneered. “ What have we to do with the 
past ? It is dead. The oppressed and injured are dead. 
God has settled their cause long ago. It would be a pretty 
and consoling sight to look at the present difference be- 
tween the English Dives and the Irish Lazarus ! The 
vengeance of God is a terrible thing. No ! my hate is of 
the present. It will not die until we have shaken the 
hold of this vampire, until we have humiliated and dis- 
graced it, and finally destroyed it. I don’t speak of re- 
taliation. The sufferings of the innocent and oppressed 


114 


are not atoned for by the sufferings of other innocents and 
other oppressed. The people are blameless. The leaders, 
the accursed artistocracy of blood, of place, of money, 
these make the corporate vampire, which battens upon 
the weak and ignorant poor ; only in England they give 
them a trifle more, flatter them with skill, while the Irish 
are kicked out like beggars.” 

He looked at Dillon with haggard eyes. Honora sat 
like a statue, as if waiting for the storm to pass. 

“I have not sworn an oath like Hannibal,” he said, 
“ because God cannot be called as a witness to hate. But 
the great foe of Rome never observed his oath more faith- 
fully than I shall that compact which I have made with 
myself and the powers of my nature : to turn all my 
strength and time and capacity into the channel of hate 
against England. Oh, how poor are words and looks and 
acts to express that fire which rages in the weakest and 
saddest of men.” 

He sank back with a gesture of weariness, and found 
Honora's hand resting on his tenderly. 

“ The other fire you have not mentioned. Daddy,” she 
said wistfully, “ the fire of a love which has done more 
for Erin than the fire of hate. For love is more than 
hate. Daddy.” 

“ Ay, indeed,” he admitted. “ Much as I hate Eng- 
land, what is it to my love for her victim ? Love is more 
than hate. One destroys, the other builds.” 

Ledwith, quite exhausted by emotion, became silent. 
The maid entered with a letter, which Honora opened, 
read silently, and handed to her father without com- 
ment. His face flushed with pleasure. 

“ Doyle Grahame writes me,” he explained to Arthur, 
“ that a friend, who wishes to remain unknown, has con- 
tributed five thousand dollars to testing my theory of an 
invasion of Ireland. That makes the expedition a cer- 
tainty — for May.” 

“ Then let me volunteer the first for this enterprise,” 
said Arthur blithely. 

“ And me the second,” cried Honora with enthusiasm. 

“Accepted both,” said Ledwith, with a proud smile, new 
life stealing into his veins. 

Not for a moment did he suspect the identity of his 
benefactor, until Monsignor, worried over the risk for 


115 


Arthur came to protest some days later. The priest had 
no faith in the military enterprise of the Fenians, and, if 
he smiled at Arthur’s interest in conspiracy, saw no good 
reasons why he should waste his money and expose his 
life and liberty in a feeble and useless undertaking. His 
protest both to Arthur and others was vigorous. 

“ If you have had anything to do with making young 
Dillon a Fenian,” he said, “and bringing him into this 
scheme of invasion, Owen, I would like you to undo the 
business, and persuade him to stay at home.” 

“Which I shall not do, you may be sure, Monsignor,” 
replied the patriot politely. “ I want such men. The 
enemy we fight sacrifices the flower of English youth to 
maintain its despotism ; why should we shrink from 
sacrifice ? ” 

“ I do not speak of sacrifice,” said Monsignor. “ One 
man is the same as another. But there are grave reasons 
which demand the presence of this young man in America, 
and graver reasons why he should not spend his money 
incautiously.” 

“ Well, he has not spent any money yet, so far as I 
know,” Led with said. 

The priest hesitated a moment, while the other looked 
at him curiously. 

“ You are not aware, then, that he has provided the 
money for your enterprise ? ” Honora uttered a cry, and 
Ledwith sprang from his chair in delighted surprise. 

“Do you tell me that ? ” he shouted. “Honora, 
Honora, we have found the right man at last ! Oh, I felt 
a hundred times that this young fellow was destined to 
work immense good for me and mine. God bless him 
forever and ever.” 

“ Amen,” said Honora, rejoicing in her father’s joy. 

“You know my opinion on these matters, Owen,” said 
Monsignor. 

“Ay, indeed, and of all the priests for that matter. 
Had we no religion the question of Irish freedom would 
have been settled long ago. Better for us had we been 
pagans or savages. Religion teaches us only how to 
suffer and be slaves.” 

“ And what has patriotism done for you ?” Monsignor 
replied without irritation. 

“ Little enough, to be sure.” 


116 


“ Now, since I have told you how necessary it is that 
Dillon should remain in America, and that his money 
should not be expended ” 

“ Monsignor,” Ledwith broke in impatiently, “let me 
say at once you are asking what you shall not get. I swear 
to you that if the faith which you preach depended on 
getting this young fellow to take back his money and to 
desert this enterprise, that faith would die. I want men, 
and I shall take the widow’s only son, the father of the 
family, the last hope of a broken heart. I want money, 
and I shall take the crust from the mouth of the starving, 
the pennies from the poor-box, the last cent of the poor, 
the vessels of the altar, anything and everything, for my 
cause. How many times has our struggle gone down in 
blood and shame because we let our foolish hearts, with 
their humanity, their faith, their sense of honor, their 
ridiculous pride, rule us. I want this man and his money. 
I did not seek them, and I shall not play tricks to keep 
them. But now that they are mine, no man shall take 
them from me.” 

Honora made peace between them, for these were stub- 
born men, unwilling to make compromises. Monsignor 
could give only general reasons. Ledwith thought God 
had answered his prayers at last. They parted with equal 
determination. 

What a welcome Arthur Dillon received from the Led- 
withs on his next visit ! The two innocents had been 
explaining their ideas for years, and traveling the earth 
to put them into action ; and in all that time had not 
met a single soul with confidence enough to invest a dollar 
in them. They had spent their spare ducats in attempting 
what required a bank to maintain. They had endured 
the ridicule of the hard-hearted and the silent pity of the 
friends who believed them foolish dreamers. And behold 
a man of money appears to endow their enterprise, and 
to show his faith in it by shipping as a common member 
of the expedition. Was there ever such luck ? They 
thanked him brokenly, and looked at him with eyes so 
full of tenderness and admiration and confidence, that 
Arthur swore to himself he would hereafter go about the 
earth, hunting up just such tender creatures, and providing 
the money to make their beautiful, heroic, and foolish 
dreams come true. He began to feel the truth of a 


117 

philosopher's saying : the dreams of the innocent are the 
last reasoning of sages. 

“And to this joy is added another," said Ledwith, 
when he could speak steadily. “ General Sheridan has 
promised to lead a Fenian army the moment the Irish 
government can show it in the field." 

“What does that mean ?" said Arthur. 

“ What does it mean that an Irish army on Irish soil 
should have for its leader a brilliant general like Sher- 
idan ? " cried Ledwith. A new emotion overpowered him. 
His eyes filled with tears. “ It means victory for a for- 
lorn cause. Napoleon himself never led more devoted 
troops than will follow that hero to battle. Washington 
never received such love and veneration as he will from 
the poor Irish, sick with longing for a true leader. Oh, 
God grant the day may come, and that we may see it, 
when that man will lead us to victory." 

His eyes flashed fire. He saw that far-off future, the 
war with its glories, the final triumph, the crowning of 
Sheridan with everlasting fame. And then without warn- 
ing he suddenly fell over into a chair. Arthur lifted up 
his head in a fright, and saw a pallid face and lusterless 
eyes. Honora bathed his temples, with the coolness and 
patience of habit. 

“ It is nothing, nothing," he said feebly after a moment. 
“ Only the foolishness of it all . . .1 can forget like a boy 
. . . the thing will never come to pass . . . never, never, 
never ! There stands the hero, splendid with success, rich 
in experience, eager, willing, a demigod whom the Irish 
could worship . . . his word would destroy faction, wipe out 
treason, weed out fools, hold the clans in solid union ... if 
we could give him an army, back him with a government, 
provide him with money ! We shall never have the army 
. . . nothing. Treason breeding faction, faction inviting 
treason . . . there's our story. 0, God, ruling in heaven, 
but not on earth, why do you torture us so ? To give us 
such a man, and leave us without the opportunity or the 
means of using him ! " 

He burst into violent, silent weeping. Dillon felt the 
stab of that hopeless grief, which for the moment revived 
his own, although he could not quite understand it. 
Ledwith dashed away the tears after a little and spoke 
calmly. 


118 


“ You see how I can yield to dreams like a foolish child. 
I felt for a little as if the thing had come to pass, and 
gave in to the fascination. This is the awaking. All 
the joy and sorrow of my life have come mostly from 
dreams.” 


119 


CHAPTER XIII. 

ANNE DILLON'S FELICITY. 

Monsignor was not discouraged by his failure to de- 
tach Arthur from the romantic expedition to the Irish 
coast. With a view to save him from an adventure so 
hurtful to his welfare, he went to see Anne Dillon. Her 
home, no longer on Mulberry Street, but on the confines of 
Washington Square, in a modest enough dwelling, enjoyed 
that exclusiveness which is like the atmosphere of a great 
painting. One feels by instinct that the master hand 
has been here. Although aware that good fortune had 
wrought a marked change in Anne, Monsignor was utterly 
taken aback by a transformation as remarkable in its way 
as the metamorphosis of Horace Endicott. 

Judy Haskell admitted him, and with a reverence 
showed him into the parlor ; the same Judy Haskell as of 
yore, ornamented with a lace cap, a collar, deep cuffs, 
and an apron ; through which her homeliness shone as 
defiantly as the face of a rough mountain through the fog. 
She had been instructed in the delicate art of receiving 
visitors with whom her intimacy had formerly been marked ; 
but for Monsignor she made an exception, and the glint 
in her eye, the smile just born in the corner of her em- 
phatic mouth, warned him that she knew of the astonish- 
ment which his good breeding concealed. 

“ We're mountin' the laddher o' glory," she said, after 
the usual questions. “ Luk at me in me ould age, dhressed 
out like a Frinch sportin' maid. If there was a baby in 
the house ye'd see me, Father Phil, galivantin' behind a 
baby-carriage up an' down the Square. Faith, she does it 
well, the climbin', if we don't get dizzy whin we're half- 
way up, an' come to earth afore all the neighbors, flatter 
nor pancakes." 

“ Tut, tut," said Monsignor, “are you not as good as 
the best, with the blood of the Montgomerys and the 


120 


Haskells in your veins ? Are you to make strange with 
all this magnificence, as if you were Indians seeing it for 
the first time ? ” 

“ That’s what I’ve been sayin’ to meself since it began,” 
she replied. 

“ Since what began ? ” 

“Why, the changin’ from Mulberry Sthreet Irish to 
Washington Square Yankees,” Judy said with a shade of 
asperity. “ It began wid the dog-show an’ the opera. 
Oh, but I thought I’d die wid laughin’, whin I had to 
shtan’ at the doors o’ wan place or the other, waitin’ on 
Micksheen, or listenin’ to the craziest music that ever was 
played or sung. After that kem politics, an’ nothin’ wnd 
do her but she’d bate ould Livingstone for Mare all by her- 
self. Thin it was Yandervelt for imbassador to England, 
an’ shegev the Senator an’ the Boss no pace till they tuk 
it up. An’ now it’s the Countess o’ Skibbereen mornin’, 
noon, an’ night. I’m sick o’ that ould woman. But she 
owns the soul of Anne Dillon.” 

“ Well, her son can afford it,” said Monsignor affably. 
“ Why shouldn’t she enjoy herself in her own way ? ” 

“ Thrue for you, Father Phil ; I ought to call you 
Morrisania, but the ould names are always the shweetest. 
He has the money, and he knows how to spind it, an’ if 
he didn’t she’d show him. Oh, but he’s the fine b’y ! 
Did ye ever see annywan grow more an’ more like his 
father, pace to his ashes. Whin he first kem it wasn’t so 
plain, but now it seems to me lie’s the very spit o’ Pat 
Dillon. The turn of his head is very like him.” 

At this point in a chat, which interested Monsignor 
deeply, a soft voice floated down from the upper distance, 
calling, “ Judy ! Judy ! ” in a delicate and perfect French 
accent. 

“ D’ye hear that, Father Phil ?” whispered Judy with 
a grin. f< It’s nothin’ now but Frinch an’ a Frinch mas- 
ther. Wait till yez hear me at it.” 

She hastened to the hall and cried out, “ Oui, oui, 
Madame,” with a murmured aside to the priest, “ It’s all 
I know.” 

Venez en haut, Judy,” said the voice. 

“ Oui, oui, Madame,” answered Judy. “That manes 
come up, Father Phil,” and Judy walked off upright, 
with folded arms, swinging her garments, actions belied 


121 


by the broad grin on her face, and the sarcastic motion of 
her lips, which kept forming the French words with great 
scorn. 

A few minutes afterward Anne glided into the room. 
The Montgomery girls had all been famous for their 
beauty in the earlier history of Cherry Hill, and Anne 
had been the belle of her time. He remembered her 
thirty years back, on the day of her marriage, when he 
served as altar-boy at her wedding ; and recalled a sweet- 
faced girl, with light brown silken hair, languorous blue 
eyes, rose-pink skin, the loveliest mouth, the most provok- 
ing chin. Time and sorrow had dealt harshly with her, 
and changed her, as the fairies might, into a thin-faced, 
gray-haired, severe woman, whose dim eyes were hidden 
by glasses. She had retained only her grace and dignity 
of manner. He recalled all this, and drew his breath ; 
for before him stood Anne Montgomery, as she had stood 
before him at the altar ; allowing that thirty years had 
artistically removed the youthful brilliance of youth, but 
left all else untouched. The brown hair waved above her 
forehead, from her plump face most of the wrinkles had 
disappeared, her eyes gleamed with the old time radiance, 
spectacles had been banished, a subdued color tinted her 
smiling face. 

“ Your son is not the only one to astound me,” said 
Monsignor. “Anne, you have brought back your youth 
again. What a magician is prosperity.” 

“It’s the liglit-heartedness. Monsignor. To have as 
much money as one can use wisely and well, to be done 
with scrimpin' forever, gives wan a new heart, or a new 
soul. I feel as I felt the day I was married.” 

She might have added some information as to the share 
which modiste and beautifier might claim in her rejuve- 
nation, but Monsignor, very strict and happily ignorantof 
the details of the toilet, as an ecclesiastic should be, was 
lost in admiration of her. It took him ten minutes to 
come to the object of his visit. 

“He has long been ahead of you,” she said, referring 
to Arthur. “I asked him for leave to visit Ireland, and 
he gave it on two conditions : that I would take Louis and 
Mona wid me, and refuse to interfere with this Fenian 
business, no matter who asked me. I was so pleased that 
I promised, and of course I can't go back on me word.” 


“This is a very clever young man/’ said Monsignor, 
admiring Anne's skill in extinguishing her beautiful 
brogue, which, however, broke out sweetly at times. 

“ Did you ever see the like of him?” she exclaimed. 
“ Fm afraid of him. He begins to look like himself and 
like his father . . . glory be to God . . . just from looking at 
the pictures of the two and thinkin’ about them. He’s 
good and generous, but I have never got over being afeared 
of him. It was only when he went back on his uncle . . . 
on Senator Dillon . . . that I plucked up courage to face 
him. I had the Senator all ready to take the place which 
Mr. Birmingham has to-day, when Arthur called him off.” 

“He never could have been elected, Anne.” 

“ I never could see why. The people that said that 
didn’t think Mr. Vandervelt could be made ambassador 
to England, at least this time. But he kem so near it that 
Quincy Livingstone complimented me on my interest for 
Mr. Vandervelt. And just the same, Dan Dillon would 
have won had he run for the office. It was with him a 
case of not wantin’ to be de trop.” 

“ Your French is tr4s propos, Anne,” said Monsignor 
with a laugh. 

“'If you want to hear an opinion of it,” said the clever 
woman, laughing, too, “ go and hear the complaints of 
Mary and Sister Magdalen. Mais je suis capable de par- 
ler Franyais tout de m6me.” 

“And are you still afraid of Arthur? Wouldn’t you 
venture on a little protest against his exposing himself to 
needless danger ? ” 

“ I can do that, certainement, but no more. I love him, 
he’s so fine a boy, and I wish I could make free wid him ; 
but he terrifies me when I think of everything and look 
at him. More than wanst have I seen Arthur Dillon look- 
ing out at me from his eyes ; and sometimes I feel that 
Pat is in the room with me when he is around. As I 
said, I got courage to face him, and he was grieved that I 
had to. For he went right into the contest over Vander- 
velt, and worked beautifully for the Countess of Skib- 
bereen. I’m to dine with her at the Vandervelts’ next 
week, the farewell dinner.” 

Her tones had a velvet tenderness in uttering this last 
sentence. She had touched one of the peaks of her am- 
bition. 


123 


# “ I shall meet you there,” said Monsignor, taking a 
pinch of snuff. “ Anne, you’re a wonderful woman. 
How have all these wonders come about ? ” 

“ It would take a head like your own to tell,” she an- 
swered, with a meaning look at her handsome afternoon 
costume. “ But I know some of the points of the game. 
I met Mr. Yandervelt at a reception, and told him he 
should not miss his chance to be ambassador, even if 
Livingstone lost the election and wanted to go to England 
himself. Then he whispered to me the loveliest whisper. 
Says he, ‘ Mrs. Dillon, they think it will be a good way to 
get rid of Mr. Livingstone if he’s defeated,’ says he ; ‘ but 
if he wins I’ll never get the high place, says he, ‘ for Tam- 
many will be of no account for years.’” 

Anne smiled to herself with simple delight over that 
whispered confidence of a Yandervelt, and Monsignor sat 
admiring this dawning cleverness. He noticed for the 
first time that her taste in dress was striking and perfect, 
as far as he could judge. 

“ Then ’ says I, ‘Mr. Yandervelt,’ says I, ‘there’s only 
wan thing to be done, wan thing to be done,’ says 1. 

‘ Arthur and the Senator and Doyle Grahame and Mon- 
signor must tell Mr. Sullivan along wid Mr. Birmingham 
that you should go to England this year. ‘ Oh,’ said he, ‘ if 
you can get such influence to work, nothing will stop me 
but the ill-will of the President.” And even there, ‘ said I, 

‘ it will be paving the way for the next time, if you make a 
good showing this time.’ ‘ You see very far and well, ’said 
he. That settled it. I’ve been dinin’ and lunching with 
the Yandervelts ever since. You know yourself, Mon- 
signor, how I started every notable man in town to tell 
Mr. Sullivan that Yandervelt must go to England. We 
failed, but it was the President did it ; but he gave Mr. 
Yandervelt his choice of any other first-class mission. 
Then next, along came the old Countess of Skibbereen, 
and she was on the hands of the Yandervelts with her 
scheme of getting knitting-machines for the poor people of 
Galway. She wasn’t getting on a bit, for she was old and 
queer in her ways, and the Yandervelts were worried over it. 
Then I said : ‘ why not get up a concert, and have Honora 
sing and let Tammany take up one end and society the 
other, and send home the Countess with ten thousand 
dollars ? ’ My dear, they jumped at it, and the Countess 


124 


jumped at me. Will you ever forget it, Monsignor dear, 
the night that Honora sang as the Genius of Erin ? If 
that girl could only get over her craziness for Ireland and 
her father — but that’s not what I was talking.about. Well, 
the Countess has her ten thousand dollars, and says I’m 
the best-dressed woman in New York. So, that’s the way 
I come to dine with the Vandervelts at the farewell dinner 
to the Countess, and when it comes off New York will be 
ringing with the name of Mrs. Montgomery Dillon.” 

“ Is that the present name ? ” said Monsignor. “ Anne, 
if you go to Ireland you’ll return with a title. Your son 
should be proud of you.” 

“ I’ll give him better reason before I’m done. Mon- 
signor.” 

The prelate rose to go, then hesitated a moment. 

“ Do you think there is anything ? — do you think there 
could be anything with regard to Honora Ledwith ? ” 

She stopped him with a gesture. 

“I have watched all that. Not a thing could happen. 
Her thoughts are in heaven, poor child, and his are busy 
with some woman that bothered him long ago, and may 
have a claim on him. No wan told me, but my seein’ and 
hearing are sharp as ever.” 

“ Good-by, Mrs. Montgomery Dillon,” he said, bowing 
at the door. 

“ Au plaisir, Monseigneur,” she replied with a curtsey, 
and Judy opened the outer door, face and mien like an 
Egyptian statue of the twelfth dynasty. 

Anne Dillon watched him go with a sigh of deep content- 
ment. How often she had dreamed of men as distinguished 
leaving her presence and her house in this fashion ; and the 
dream had come true. All her life she had dreamed of the 
elegance and importance, which had come to her through 
her strange son, partly through her own ambition and abil- 
ity. She now believed that if one only dreams hard enough 
fortune will bring dreams true. As the life which is past 
fades, for all its reality, into the mist-substance of dreams, 
why should not the reverse action occur ? Had she been 
without the rich-colored visions which illuminated her 
idle hours, opportunity might have found her a spiritless 
creature, content to take a salary from her son and to lay 
it by for the miserable days of old age. Out upon such 
tameness ! She had found life in her dreams, and the two 


125 


highest expressions of that life were Mrs. Montgomery 
Dillon and the Dowager Conntess of Skibbereen. 

As a pagan priestess might have arrayed herself for ap- 
pearance in the sanctuary, she clothed herself in purple 
and gold on the evening of the farewell dinner. 

Arthur escorted his mother and Honora to the Yander- 
velt residence. 

As the trio made their bows, the aspirant for diplomatic 
honors rejoiced that his gratitude for real favors reflected 
itself in objects so distinguished. He was a grateful man, 
this Yandervelt, and broad-minded, willing to gild the 
steps by which he mounted, and to honor the humblest 
who honored him : an aristocrat in the American sense 
of the term, believing that those who wished should be 
encouraged to climb as high as natural capacity and op- 
portunity permitted. The party sat down slightly bored, 
they had gone through it so often ; but for Anne Dillon 
each moment and each circumstance shone with celestial 
beauty. She floated in the ether. The mellow lights, the 
glitter of silver and glass, the perfume of flowers, the soft 
voices, all sights and sounds, made up a harmony which 
lifted her body from the ground as on wings, more like a 
dream than her richest dreams. For conversation, some 
one started Lord Constantine on his hobby, and said 
Arthur was a Fenian, bent on destroying the hobby for- 
ever. in the discussion the Countess appealed to 
Anne. 

“ We are a fighting race,” said she, with admirable 
caution picking her steps through a long paragraph. 
“ There’s — there are times when no one can hold us. This 
is such a time. A few months back the Fenian trouble 
could have been settled in one week. Now it will take a 
year.” 

“ But how ? ” said Yandervelt. “ If you had the mak- 
ing of the scheme, I’m sure it would be a success.” 

“ In this way,” she answered, bowing and smiling to his 
sincere compliment, “ by making all the Irsh Fenians, 
that is, those in Ireland, policemen.” 

The gentlemen laughed with one accord. 

“ Mr. Sullivan manages his troublesome people that 
way,” she observed triumphantly. 

“You are a student of the leader,” said Yander- 
velt. 


126 


“ Everybody should study him, if they want to win,” 
said Anne. 

“ And that's wisdom,” cried Lord Constantine. 

The conversation turned on opera, and the hostess 
wondered why Honora did not study for the operatic stage. 
Then they all urged her to think of the scheme. 

“ I hope,” said Anne gently, “ that she will never try 
to spoil her voice with opera. The great singers give me 
the chills, and the creeps, and the shivers, the most terri- 
ble feeling, which I never had since the day Monsignor 
preached his first sermon, and broke down. 

“ Oh, you dear creature,” cried the Countess, “ what a 
long memory you have.” 

Monsignor had to explain his first sermon. So it went 
on throughout the dinner. The haze of perfect happiness 
gathered about Anne, and her speech became inspired. 
A crown of glory descended upon her head when the 
Dowager, hearing of her summer visit to Ireland with 
Mona and Louis in her care, exacted a solemn promise from 
her that the party should spend one month with her at 
Castle Moyna, her dower home. 

“ That lovely boy and girl,” said the Countess, “ will 
find the place pleasant, and will make it pleasant for me ; 
where usually I can induce not even my son's children to 
come, they find it so dull.” 

It did not matter much to Anne what happened there- 
after. The farewells, the compliments, the joy of walk- 
ing down to the coach on the arm of Yandervelt, were as 
dust to this invitation of the Dowager Countess of Skib- 
bereen. The glory of the dinner faded away. She looked 
down on the Vandervelts from the heights of Castle Moyna. 
She lost all at once her fear of her son. From that mo- 
ment the earth became as a rose-colored flame. She al- 
most ignored the adulation of Cherry Hill, and the aston- 
ished reverence of her friends over her success. Her 
success was told in awesome whispers in the church as she 
walked to the Hiird pew of the middle aisle. A series of 
legends grew about it, over which the experienced gossips 
disputed in vain ; her own description of the dinner was 
carried to the four quarters of the world by Sister Mag- 
dalen, Miss Conyngham, Senator Dillon, and Judy ; the 
skeptical and envious pretended to doubt even the para- 
graph in the journals. At last they were struck dumb 


127 


with the rest when it was announced that on Saturday 
last Mrs. Montgomery Dillon, Miss Mona Everard. and 
Mr. Louis Everard had sailed on the City of London for 
a tour of Europe, the first month of which would be 
spent at Castle Moyna, Ireland, as guests of the Dowager 
Countess of Skibbereen ! 


128 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ABOARD THE (i ARROW.” 

Ohe month later sailed another ship. In the depth of 
night the Arrow slipped her anchor, and stole away from 
the suspicious eyes of harbor officials into the Atlantic ; 
a stout vessel, sailed with discretion, her trick being to 
avoid no encounters on the high seas and to seek none. 
Love and hope steered her course. Her bowsprit pointed, 
like the lance of a knight, at the power of England. Her 
north star was the freedom of a nation. War had nothing 
to do with her, however, though her mission was warlike : 
to prove that one hundred similar vessels might sail from 
various parts to the Irish coast, and land an army and its 
supplies without serious interference from the enemy. The 
crew was a select body of men, whose souls ever sought 
the danger of hopeless missions, as others seek a holiday. 
In spite of fine weather and bracing seas, the cloud of a 
lonely fate hung over the ship. Arthur alone was en- 
thusiastic. Ledwith, feverish over slight success, because it 
roused the dormant appetite for complete success, and 
Honora, fed upon disappointment, feared that this expedi- 
tion would prove ashen bread as usual : but the improve- 
ment in her father’s health kept her cheerful. Doyle 
Grahame, always in high spirits, devoted his leisure to 
writing the book which was to bring him fame and much 
money. He described its motive and aim to his com- 
panions. 

“ It calls a halt,” he said (i on the senseless haste of 
Christians to take up such pagans as Matthew Arnold, and 
raises a warning cry against surrender to the pagan spirit 
which is abroad.” 

“ And do you think that the critics will read it and be 
overcome ? ” asked Arthur. 

“ It will convince the critics, not that they are pagans, 


129 


but that I am. They will review it, therefore, just to 
annoy me.” 

“ You reason just like a critic, from anywhere to no- 
where.” 

“ The book will make a stir, nevertheless,” and Doyle 
showed his confidence. 

“ It’s to be a loud protest, and will tangle the supple 
legs of Henry Ward Beecher and other semi-pagans like 
a lasso.” 

“ How about the legs of the publishers ? ” 

“ That’s their lookout. I have nothing against them, 
and I hope at the close of the sale they will have nothing 
against me.” 

“ When, where, with what title, binding and so 
forth ? ” 

“ Speak not overmuch to thy dentist,” said Grahame 
slyly. “ Already he knoweth too many of thy mouth’s 
secrets.” 

The young men kept the little company alive with their 
pranks and their badinage. Grahame discovered in the 
Captain a rare personality, who had seen the globe in its 
entirety, particularly the underside, as a detective and 
secret service agent for various governments. He was a 
tall, slender man, rather like a New England deacon than a 
daring adventurer, with a refined face, a handsome beard, 
and a speaking, languid gray eye. He spent the first 
week in strict devotion to his duties, and in close observa- 
tion of his passengers. In the second week Grahame had 
him telling stories after dinner for the sole purpose of 
diverting the sad and anxious thoughts of Honora, al- 
though Arthur hardly gave her time to think by the 
multiplied services which he rendered her. There came 
an afternoon of storm, followed by a nasty night, which 
kept all the passengers in the cabin ; and after tea there, 
a demand was made upon Captain Richard Curran for the 
best and longest story in his repertory. The men lit pipes 
and cigars, and Honora brought her crotch eting. The 
rolling and tossing of the ship, the beating of the rain, 
and the roar of the wind, gave them a sense of comfort. 
The ship, in her element, proudly and smoothly rode the 
rough waves, showing her strength like a racer. 

“ Let us have a choice. Captain,” said Grahame, as 
the officer settled himself in his chair. “ You detectives 
9 


X30 


always set forth your successes. Give us now a story of 
complete failure, something that remains a mystery till 
now.” 

“ Mystery is the word,” said Honora. “ This is a night 
of mystery. But a story without an end to it ” 

“ Like the history of Ireland,” said Led with dryly. 

“ Is the very one to keep us thinking and talking for a 
month,” said Grahame. “ Captain, if you will oblige us, 
a story of failure and of mystery.” 

“ Such a one is fresh in my mind, for I fled from my 
ill-success to take charge of this expedition,” said the 
Captain, whose voice was singularly pleasant. “ The de- 
tective grows stale sometimes, as singers and musicians 
do, makes a failure of his simplest work, and has to go 
off and sharpen his wits at another trade. I am in that 
condition. For twenty months I sought the track of 
a man, who disappeared as if the air absorbed him where 
he last breathed. I did not find him. The search gave 
me a touch of monomania. For two months I have not 
been able to rest upon meeting a new face until satisfied 
its owner was not — let us say, Tom Jones.” 

“ Are you satisfied, then,” said Arthur, “ that we are 
all right ? ” 

“ He was not an Irishman, but a Puritan,” replied the 
Captain, “ and would not be found in a place like this. I 
admit I studied your faces an hour or so, and asked about 
you among the men, but under protest. I have given up 
the pursuit of Tom Jones, and I wish he would give up 
the pursuit of me. I had to quiet my mind with some 
inquiries.” 

“ Was there any money awaiting Tom ? If so, I might 
be induced to be discovered,” Grahame said anxiously. 

e< You are all hopeless, Mr. Grahame. I have known 
you and Mr. Ledwith long enough, and Mr. Dillon has 
his place secure in New York ” 

“ With a weak spot in my history,” said Arthur. “ I 
was off in California, playing bad boy for ten years.” 

The Captain waved his hand as admitting Dillon’s right 
to his personality. 

“ In October nearly two years ago the case of Tom 
Jones was placed in my care with orders to report at once 
to Mrs. Tom. The problem of finding a lost man is in 
itself very simple, if he is simply lost or in hiding. You 


131 


follow his track from the place where he was last seen to 
his new abode. But around this simple fact of disap- 
pearance are often grouped the interests of many persons, 
which make a tangle worse than a poor fisherman’s line. 
A proper detective will make no start in his search until 
the line is as straight and taut as if a black bass were 
sporting at the other end of it.” 

All the men exchanged delighted glances at this simile. 

“ I could spin this story for three hours straight talking 
of the characters who tangled me at the start. But I did 
not budge until I had unraveled them every one. Mrs. 
Jones declared there was no reason for the disappearance 
of Tom ; his aunt Quincy said her flightiness had driven 
him to it ; and Cousin Jack, Mrs. Tom’s adviser, thought 
it just a freak after much dissipation, for Tom had been 
acting queerly for months before he did the vanishing act. 
The three were talking either from spleen or the wish to 
hide the truth. When there was no trace of Tom after a 
month of ordinary searching much of the truth came out, 
and I discovered the rest. Plain speech with Mrs. Tom 
brought her to the half-truth. She was told that her 
husband would never be found if the detective had to work 
in the dark. She was a clever woman, and very much 
worried, for reasons, over her husband’s disappearance. 
It was something to have her declare that he had suspected 
her fidelity, but chiefly out of spleen, because she had 
discovered his infidelity. A little sifting of many state- 
ments, which took a long time, for I was on the case 
nearly two years, as I said, revealed Mrs. Tom as a remark- 
able woman. In viciousness she must have been some- 
thing of a monster, though she was beautiful enough to 
have posed for an angel. Her corruption *was of the 
marrow. She breathed crime and bred it. But her blade 
was too keen. She wounded herself too often. Grit and 
fercocity were her strong points. We meet such women 
occasionally. When she learned that I knew as much 
about her as need be, she threw off hypocrisy, and made 
me an offer of ten thousand dollars to find her husband.” 

“ I felt sure then of the money. Disappearance, for a 
living man, if clever people are looking for him, is impos- 
sible nowadays. I can admit the case of a man being 
secretly killed or self-buried, say, for instance, his wander- 
ing into a swamp and there perishing : these cases of dis- 


132 


appearance are common. But if he is alive he can be 
found.” 

“ Why are you so sure of that ? ” said Arthur. 

“ Because no man can escape from his past, which is 
more a part of him than his heart or his liver,” said 
Curran. “ That past is the pathway which leads to him. 
If you have it, it’s only a matter of time when you will 
have him.” 

“Yet you failed to find Tom Jones.” 

“ For the time, yes,” said the Captain with an eloquent 
smile. “ Then, I had an antagonist of the noblest quality. 
Tom Jones was a bud of the Mayflower stock. All his 
set agreed that he was an exceptional man : a clean, honest, 
upright chap, the son of a soldier and a peerless mother, 
apparently an every-day lad, but really as fine a piece of 
manhood as the world turns out. Anyhow, I came to that 
conclusion about him when I had studied him through 
the documents. What luck threw him between the foul 
jaws of his wife I can't say. She was a ” 

The detective coughed before uttering the word, 
and looked at the men as he changed the form of his 
sentence. 

“She was a cruel creature. He adored her, and she 
hated him, and when he was gone slandered him with a 
laugh, and defiled his honest name.” 

“ Oh,” cried Honora with a gasp of pain, “can there be 
such women now ? I have read of them in history, but I 
always felt they were far oil ” 

“ I hope they are not many,” said the Captain politely, 
“ but in my profession I have met them. Here was a case 
where the best of men was the victim of an Agrippina.” 

“Poor, dear lad,” sighed she, “and of course he fled 
from her in horror.” 

“ He was a wonder, Miss_Ledwith. Think what he did. 
Such a man is more than a match for such a woman. He 
discovered her unfaithfulness months before he disap- 
peared. Then he sold all his property, turning all he 
owned into money, and transferred it beyond any reach but 
his own, leaving his wife just what she brought him — an 
income from her parents of fifteen hundred a year : a mere 
drop to a woman whom he had dowered with a share in 
one hundred thousand. Though I could not follow the 
tracks of his feet, I saw the traces of his thoughts as he 


133 


executed his scheme of vengeance. He discovered her 
villainy, he would have no scandal, he was disgusted with 
life, so he dropped out of it with the prize for which she 
had married him, and left her like a famished wolf in the 
desert. It would have satisfied him to have seen her rage 
and dismay, but he was not one of the kind that enjoys 
torture.” 

“ I watched Mrs. Tom for months, and felt she was the 
nearest thing to a demon I had ever met. IV ell, I worked 
hard to find Tom. We tried many tricks to lure him from 
his hiding-place, if it were near by, and we followed many 
a false trail into foreign lands. The result was dreadful 
to me. We found nothing. When a child was born to 
him, and the fact advertised, and still he did not appear, 
or give the faintest sign, I surrendered. It would be 
tedious to describe for you how I followed the sales of his 
property, how I examined his last traces, how I pursued 
all clues, how I wore myself out with study. At the last 
I gave out altogether and cut the whole business. I was 
beginning to have Tom on the brain. He came to live on 
my nerves, and to haunt my dreams, and to raise ghosts 
for me. He is gpne two years, and Mrs. Tom is in 
Europe with her baby and Tom’s aunt Quincy. When I 
get over my present trouble, and get back a clear brain, 
I shall take up the search. I shall find him yet. I’d like 
to show some of the documents, but the matter is still 
confidential, and I must keep quiet, though I don’t suppose 
you know # any of the parties. When I find him I shall 
finish the story for you.” 

“ You will never find him,” said Honora with emphasis. 
“ That fearful woman shattered his very soul. I know 
the sort of a man he was. He will never go back. If he 
can bear to live, it will be because in his obscurity God 
gave him new faith and hope in human nature, and in the 
woman’s part of it. ” 

“ I shall find him,” said the detective. 

“You won’t,” said Grahame. “ I’ll wager he has been 
so close to you all this time, that you cannot recognize 
him. That man is living within your horizon, if he’s liv- 
ingat all. Probably he has aided you in your search. You 
wouldn’t be the first detective fooled in that game.” 

The Captain made no reply, but went off to see how his 
ship was bearing the storm. The little company fell silent, 


134 


perhaps depressed by the sounds of tempest without and 
the thought of the poor soul whose departure from life had 
been so strange. Arthur sat thinking of many things. 
He remembered the teaching that to God the past, present, 
and future are as one living present. Here was an illus- 
tration : the old past and the new present side by side to- 
night in the person of this detective. What a giant hand 
was that which could touch him, and fail to seize only 
because the fingers did not know their natural prey. No 
doubt that the past is more a part of a man than his heart, 
for here was every nerve of his body tingling to turn 
traitor to his will. Horace Endicott, so long stilled that 
he thought him dead, rose from his sleep at the bidding of 
the detective, and fought to betray Arthur Dillon. The 
blush, the trembling of the hands, the tension of the 
muscles, the misty eye, the pallor of the cheek, the trem- 
ulous lip, the writhing tongue, seemed to put themselves 
at the service of Endicott, and to fight for the chance to 
betray the secret to Curran. He sat motionless, fighting, 
fighting ; until after a little he felt a delightful conscious- 
ness of the strength of Dillon, as of a rampart which the 
Endicott could not overclimb. Then his spirits rose, and he 
listened without dread to the story. How pitiful ! What a 
fate for that splendid boy, the son of a brave soldier and a 
peerless mother ! A human being allied with a beast ! 
Oh, tender heart of Honora that sighed for him so piti- 
fully ! Oh, true spirit that recognized how impossible for 
Horace Endicott ever to return ! Down, out of sight for- 
ever, husband of Agrippina ! The furies lie in wait for 
thee, wretched husband of their daughter ! Have shame 
enough to keep in thy grave until thou goest to meet 
Sonia at the judgment seat ! 

Captain Curran was not at all flattered by the deep in- 
terest which Arthur took for the next two days in the case 
of Tom Jones ; but the young man nettled him by his 
emphatic assertions that the detective had adopted a wrong 
theory as to the mysterious disappearance. They went 
over the question of motives and of methods. The shrewd 
objections of Dillon gave him favor in Curran’s eyes. 
Before long the secret documents in the Captain’s posses- 
sion were laid before him under obligations of secrecy. 
He saw various photographs of Endicott, and wondered at 
the blindness of man ; for here side by side were the man 


135 


Bought and his portrait, yet the detective could not see the 
truth. Was it possible that the exterior man had changed 
so thoroughly to match the inner personality which had 
grown up in him ? He was conscious of such a change. 
The mirror which reflected Arthur Dillon displayed a 
figure in no way related to the portrait. 

“ It seems to me/’ said Arthur, after a study of the 
photograph, “that I would be able to reach that man, no 
matter what his disguise.” 

“ Disguises are mere veils,” said Curran, “ which the 
trained eye of the detective can pierce easily. But the 
great difficulty lies in a natural disguise, in the case where 
the man’s appearance changes without artificial aids. Here 
are two photographs which will illustrate my meaning. 
Look at this.” 

Arthur saw a young and well-dressed fellow who might 
have been a student of good birth and training. 

“Now look at this,” said the Captain, “and discover 
that they picture one and the same individual, with a 
difference in age of two years.” 

The second portrait was a vigorous, rudely-dressed, 
bearded adventurer, as much like the first as Dillon was 
like Grahame. Knowing that the portraits stood for the 
Same youth, Arthur could trace a resemblance in the 
separate features, but in the ensemble there was no like- 
ness. 

“ The young fellow went from college to Africa,” said 
Curran, “where he explored the wilderness for two years. 
This photograph was taken on his return from an expedi- 
tion. His father and mother, his relatives and friends, 
saw that picture without recognizing him. When told 
who it was, they were wholly astonished, and after a second 
study still failed to recognize their friend. What are you 
going to do in a case of that kind ? You or Grahame or Led- 
with might be Tom Jones, and how could I pierce such 
perfect and natural disguises.” 

“ Let me see,” said Arthur, as he stood with Endicott’s 
photograph in his hand and studied the detective, “ if I 
can see this young man in you.” 

Having compared the features of the portrait and of the 
detective, he had to admit the absence of a likeness. 
Handing the photograph to the Captain he said, 

“ You do the same for me.” 


136 


“ There is more likelihood in your case/’ said Curran, 
“ for your age is nearer that of Tom Jones, and youth has 
resemblances of color and feature.” 

He studied the photograph and compared it with the 
grave face before him. 

“ I have done this before/’ said Curran, “ with the same 
result. You are ten years older than Tom Jones, and you 
are as clearly Arthur Dillon as he was Tom Jones.” 

The young man and the Captain sighed together. 

“Oh, I brought in others, clever and experienced, 
said Curran, “ to try what a fresh mind could do to help 
me, but in vain.” 

“ There must have been something hard about Tom 
Jones,” said Arthur, “ when he was able to stay away and 
make no sign after his child was born.” 

The Captain burst into a mocking laugh, which escaped 
him before he could repress the inclination. 

“ He may never have heard of it, and if he did his wife’s 
reputation ” 

“ I see,” said Arthur Dillon smiling, convinced that 
Captain Curran knew more of Sonia Westfield than he 
cared to tell. At the detective’s request the matter was 
dropped as one that did him harm ; but he complimented 
Arthur on the shrewdness of his suggestions, which indeed 
had given him new views without changing his former 
opinions. 


137 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE INVASION OF IRELAND. 

One lovely morning the good ship sailed into the harbor 
of Foreskillen, an obscnre fishing port on the lonely coast 
of Donegal. The Arrow had been in sight of land all the 
day before. A hush had fallen on the spirits of the ad- 
venturers. The two innocents, Iionora and her father, 
had sat on deck with eyes fixed on the land of their love, 
scarcely able to speak, and unwilling to eat, in spite of 
Arthur’s coaxing. Half the night they sat there, mostly 
silent, talking reverently, every one touched and afraid 
to disturb them ; after a short sleep they were on deck 
again to see the ship enter the harbor in the gray dawn. 
The sun was still behind the brown hills. Arthur saw a 
silver bay, a mournful shore with a few houses huddled 
miserably in the distance, and bare hills without verdure 
or life. It was an indifferent part of the earth to him ; 
but revealed in the hearts of Owen Led with and his 
daughter, no jewel of the mines could have shone more 
resplendent. He did not understand the love called pa- 
triotism, any more than the love of a parent for his child. 
These affections have to be experienced to be known. He 
loved his country and was ready to die for it ; but to have 
bled for it, to have writhed'under tortures for it, to have 
groaned in unison with its mortal anguish, to have passed 
through the fire of death and yet lived for it, these were not 
his glories. 

In the cool, sad morning the father and daughter stood 
glorified in his eyes, for if they loved each other much, 
they loved this strange land more. The white lady, whiter 
now than lilies, stood with her arm about her father, her 
eyes shining ; and he, poor man, trembled in an ague of 
love and pity and despair and triumph, with a rapt, grief- 
stricken face, his shoulders heaving to the repressed sob, 
as if nature would there make an end of him under this 


138 


torrent of delight and pain. Arthur writhed in secret 
humiliation. To love like this was of the gods, and he 
had never loved anything so but Agrippina. As the ship 
glided to her anchorage the crew stood about the deck in 
absolute silence, every man’s heart in his face, the watch 
at its post, the others leaning on the bulwarks. Like 
statues they gazed on the shore. It seemed a phantom 
ship, blown from ghostly shores by the strength of hatred 
against the enemy, and love for the land of Eire ; for no 
hope shone in their eyes, or in the eyes of Led with and 
his daughter, only triumph at their own light success. 
What a pity, thought Dillon, that at this hour of time 
men should have reason to look so at the power of England. 
He knew there were millions of them scattered over the 
earth, studying in just hate to shake the English grip on 
stolen lands, to pay back the robberies of years in English 
blood. 

The ship came to anchor amid profound silence, save for 
the orders of the Captain and the movements of the men. 
Ledwith was speaking to himself more than to Honora, 
a lament in the Irish fashion over the loved and lost, in a 
way to break the heart. The tears rolled down Honora’s 
cheek, for the agony was beginning. 

“ Land of love . . . land of despair . . . without a friend 
except among thy own children . . . here am I back again 
with just a grain of hope ... I love thee, I love thee, I 
love thee ! Let them neglect thee . . . die every moment 
under the knife . . . live in rags ... in scorn . . . and 
hatred too . . . they have spared thee nothing ... I love 
thee ... I am faithful . . . God strike me that day when 
I forget thee ! Here is the first gift I have ever given thee 
besides my heart and my daughter ... a ship ... no 
freight but hope ... no guns alas ! for thy torturers . . . 
they are still free to tear thee, these wolves, and to lie about 
thee to the whole world . . . blood and lies are their feast 
. . . and how sweet are thy shores . . . after all . . . be- 
cause thou art everlasting ! Thy children are gone, but they 
shall come back . . . the dead are dead, but the living 
are in. many lands, and they will return . . . perhaps soon 
. . . I am the messenger . . . helpless as ever, but I bring 
thee news . . . good news ... my beautiful Ireland ! 
Poorer than ever I return ... I shall never see thee 
free ” 


139 


He was working himself into a fever of grief when 
Honora spoke to him. 

“ You are forgetting, father, that this is the moment to 
thank Mr. Dillon in the name of our country ” 

“ I forget everything when I am here,” said Ledwith, 
breaking into cheerful smiles, and seizing Arthur’s hand. 
“ I would be ashamed to say * thank you/ Arthur, for 
what you have done. Let this dear land herself welcome 
you to her shores. Never a foot stepped on them worthier 
of respect and love than you.” 

They went ashore in silence, having determined on 
their course the night previous. They must learn first what 
had happened since their departure from New York, where 
there had been rumors of a rising, which Ledwith dis- 
trusted. It was too soon for the Fenians to rise ; but as 
the movement had gotten partly beyond the control of the 
leaders, anything might have happened. If the country was 
still undisturbed, they might enjoy a ride through wild 
Donegal ; if otherwise, it was safer, having accomplished the 
purpose of the trip, to sail back to the West. The miser- 
able village at the head of the bay showed a few dwellers 
when they landed on the beach, but little could be learned 
from them, save directions to a distant cotter who owned 
an ass and a cart, and always kept information and moun- 
tain dew for travelers and the gentry. The young men 
visited the cotter, and returned with the cart and the news. 
The rising was said to have begun, but farther east and 
south, and the cotter had seen soldiers and police and squads 
of men hurrying over the country ; but so remote was the 
storm that the whole party agreed a ride over the bare 
hills threatened no danger. 

They mounted the cart in high spirits, now that emotion 
had subsided. All matters had been arranged with Capt- 
ain Curran, who was not to expect them earlier than the 
next day at evening, and had his instructions for all con- 
tingencies. They set out for a village to the north, 
expressly to avoid encounters possible southward. The 
morning was glorious. Arthur wondered at the miles of 
uninhabited land stretching away on either side of the road, 
at the lack of population in a territory so small. He had 
heard of these things before, but the sight of them 
proved stranger than the hearing. Perhaps they had gone 
five miles on the road to Cruarig, when Grahame, driv- 


140 


ing, pulled up the donkey with suddenness, and cried out 
in horror. Eight men had suddenly come in sight on 
the road, armed with muskets, and as suddenly fled up the 
nearest timbered hill and disappeared. 

“ I’ll wager something,” said Grahame, “ that these men 
are being pursued by the police, or — which would be worse 
for us — by soldiers. There is nothing to do but retreat 
in good order, and send out a scout to make sure of the 
ground. We ought to have done that the very first thing.” 

No one gainsaid him, but Arthur thought that they 
might go on a bit further cautiously, and if nothing 
suspicious occurred reach the town. Dubiously Grahame 
whipped up the donkey, and drove with eyes alert past the 
wooded hill, which on its north side dropped into a little 
glen watered by the sweetest singing brook. They paused 
to look at the brook and the glen. The road stretched 
away above and below like a ribbon. A body of soldiers 
suddenly brightened the north end of the ribbon two 
miles off. 

“Now by all the evil gods,” said Grahame, “but we 
have dropped into the very midst of the insurrection.” 

He was about to turn the donkey, when Honora cried 
out in alarm and pointed back over the road which they 
had just traveled. Another scarlet troop was moving 
upon them from that direction. Without a word Grahame 
turned the cart into the glen, and drove as far as the limits 
would permit within the shade. They alighted. 

“ This is our only chance,” he said. “ The eight men 
with muskets are rebels whom the troops have cornered. 
There may be a large force in the vicinity, ready to give the 
soldiers of Her Majesty a stiff battle. The soldiers will be 
looking for rebels and not for harmless tourists, and we may 
escape comfortably by keeping quiet until the two divis- 
ions marching towards each other have met and had an 
explanation. If we are discovered, I shall do the talking, 
and explain our embarrassment at meeting so many armed 
men first, and then so many soldiers. We are in for it, I 
know.” 

No one seemed to mind particularly. Honora stole an 
anxious glance at her father, while she pulled a little 
bunch of shamrock and handed it to Arthur. He felt 
like saying it would yet be stained by his blood in defense 
of her country, but knew at the same moment how foolish 


141 


and weak the words would sound in her ears. He offered 
himself as a scout to examine the top of the hill, and dis- 
cover if the rebels were there, and was permitted to go 
under cautions from Grahame, to return within fifteen min- 
utes. He returned promptly full of enthusiasm. The eight 
men were holding the top of the hill, almost over their heads, 
and would have it out with the two hundred soldiers from 
the town. They had expected a body of one hundred insur- 
gents at this point, but the party had not turned up. Eager 
to have a brush with the enemy, they intended to hold 
the hill as long as possible, and then scatter in different 
directions, sure that pursuit could not catch them. 

“ The thing for them to do is to save us,” said Grahame. 
“Let them move on to another hill northward, and while 
they fight the soldiers we may be able to slip back to the 
ship.” 

The suggestion came too late. The troops were in 
full sight. Their scouts had met in front of the glen, 
evidently acting upon information received earlier, and 
seemed disappointed at finding no trace of a body of 
insurgents large enough to match their own battalion. The 
boys on the top of the hill put an end to speculations as 
to the next move by firing a volley into them. A great 
scattering followed, and the bid for a fight was cheerfully 
answered by the officer in command of the troops. Hav- 
ing joined his companies, examined the position and made 
sure that its defenders were few and badly armed, he 
ordered a charge. In five minutes the troops were in 
possession of the hilltop, and the insurgents had fled ; but 
on the hillside lay a score of men wounded and dead. 
The rebels were good marksmen, and fleet-footed. The 
scouts beat the bushes and scoured the wood in vain. 
The report to the commanding officer was the wounding of 
two men, who were just then dying in a little glen close by, 
and the discovery of a party of tourists in the glen, who had 
evidently turned aside to escape the trouble, and were now 
ministering to the dying rebels. 

Captain Sydenham went up to investigate. Before he 
arrived the little drama of death had passed, and the two 
insurgents lay side by side at the margin of the brook 
like brothers asleep. When the insurgents fled from 
their position, the two wounded ones dropped into the 
glen in the hope of escaping notice for the time ; but they 


142 


were far spent when they fell headlong among the party in 
hiding below. Grahame and Ledwith picked them up 
and laid them near the brook, Honora pillowed their 
heads with coats, Arthur brought water to bathe their 
hands and faces, grimy with dust of travel and sweat of 
death ; for an examination of the wounds showed Ledwith 
that they were speedily mortal. He dipped his handker- 
chief in the flowing blood of each, and placed it reverently 
in his breast. There was nothing to do but bathe the 
faces and moisten the lips of the dying and unconscious 
men. They were young, one rugged and hard, the other 
delicate in shape and color ; the same grace of youth be- 
longed to both, and showed all the more beautifully at 
this moment through the heavy veil of death. 

Arthur gazed at them with eager curiosity, and at the 
red blood bubbling from their wounds. For their country 
they were dying, as his father had died, on the field of 
battle. This blood, of which he had so often read , was the 
price which man pays for liberty, which redeems the 
slave ; richer than molten gold, than sun and stars, price- 
less. Oh, sweet and glorious, unutterably sweet to die like 
this for men ! 

“ Do you recognize him ? ” said Ledwith to Grahame, 
pointing to the elder of the two. Grahame bent forward, 
startled that he should know either unfortunate. 

“ It is young Devin, the poet,” cried Ledwith with a 
burst of tears. Honora moaned, and Grahame threw up 
his hands in despair. 

“We must give the best to our mother,” said Ledwith, 
“ but I would prefer blood so rich to be scattered over a 
larger soil.” 

He took the poet’s hand in his own, and stroked it 
gently ; Honora wiped the face of the other ; Grahame on 
his knees said the prayers he remembered for sinners and 
passing souls ; secretly Arthur put in his pocket a 
rag stained with death-sweat and life-blood. Almost in 
silence, without painful struggle, the boys died. Devin 
opened his eyes one moment on the clear blue sky and 
made an effort to sing. He chanted a single phrase, which 
summed up his life and its ideals : “ Mother, always the 
best for Ireland.” Then his eyes closed and his heart 
stopped. The little party remained silent, until Honora, 
looking at the still faces, so young and tender, thought of 


143 


the mothers sitting in her place, and began to weep aloud. 
At this moment Captain Sydenham marched op the 
glen with clinking spur. He stopped at a distance and 
took off his hat with the courtesy of a gentleman and the 
sympathy of a soldier. Grahame went forward to meet 
him, and made his explanations. 

“ It is perfectly clear,” said the Captain, “ that you are 
tourists and free from all suspicion. However, it will be 
necessary for you to accompany me to the town and make 
your declarations to the magistrate as well. As you were 
going there anyhow it will be no hardship, and I shall be 
glad to make matters as pleasant as possible for the young 
lady.” 

Grahame thanked him, and introduced him to the party. 
He bowed very low over the hand which Honora gave him. 

“ A rather unfortunate scene for you to witness,” he said. 

Yet she had borne it like one accustomed to scenes of 
horror. Her training in Ledwith’s school bred calmness, 
and above all silence, amid anxiety, disappointment and 
calamity. 

“ I was glad to be here,” she replied, the tears still 
coursing down her face, “ to take their mother’s place.” 

“ Two beautiful boys,” said the Captain, looking into 
the dead faces. “ Killing men is a bad business any- 
where, but when we have to kill our own, and such as 
these, it is so much worse.” 

Ledwith flashed the officer a look of gratitude. 

<tf I shall have the bodies carried to the town along with 
our own dead, and let the authorities take care of them. 
And now if you will have the goodness to take your places, 
I shall do myself the pleasure of riding with you as far as 
the magistrate’s.” 

Honora knelt and kissed the pale cheeks of the dead 
boys, and then accepted Captain Sydenham’s arm in the 
march out of the glen. The men followed sadly. Led- 
with looked wild for a while. The tears pressed against 
Arthur’s eyes. What honor gilded these dead heroes ! 

The procession moved along the road splendidly, the 
soldiers in front and the cart in the rear, while a detail 
still farther off carried the wounded and dead. Captain 
Sydenham devoted himself to Honora, which gave Grahame 
the chance to talk matters over with Ledwith on the other 
side of the car. 


144 


“ Did you ever dream in all your rainbow dreams,” said 
Grahame, “ of marching thus into Cruarig with escort of 
Her Majesty ? It's damfunny. But the question now is, 
what are we to do with the magistrate ? Any sort of an 
inquiry will prove that we are more than suspicious char- 
acters. If they run across the ship we shall go to jail. If 
they discover you and me, death or Botany Bay will be 
our destination.” 

“ It is simply a case of luck,” Ledwith replied. 
et Scheming won’t save us. If Lord Constantine were in 
London now ” 

“ Great God ! ” cried Grahame in a whisper, “ there’s 
the luck. Say no more. I’ll work that tine name as it 
was never worked before.” 

He called out to Captain Sydenham to come around to 
his side of the car for a moment. 

“ I am afraid,” he said, “ that we have fallen upon evil 
conditions, and that, before we get through with the 
magistrates, delays will be many and vexatious. I feel 
that we shall need some of our English friends of last 
winter in New York. Do you know Lord Constantine ? ” 

“ Are you friends of Lord Leverett ?” cried the Captain. 
“ Well, then, that settles it. A telegram from him will 
smooth the magistrate to the silkiness of oil. But I do 
not apprehend any annoyance. I shall be happy to ex- 
plain the circumstances, and you can get away to Dublin, 
or any port where you hope to meet your ship.” 

The Captain went back to Honora, and talked Lord 
Constantine until they arrived in the town and proceeded 
to the home of the magistrate. Unfortunately there was 
little cordiality between Captain Sydenham and Folsom, 
the civil ruler of the district ; and because the gallant 
Captain made little of the episode therefore Folsom must 
make much of it. 

i( I can easily believe in the circumstances which threw 
tourists into so unpleasant a situation,” said Folsom, “ but 
at the same time I am compelled to observe all the formal- 
ities. Of course the young lady is free. Messrs. Dillon 
and Grahame may settle themselves comfortably in the 
town, on their word not to depart without permission. 
Mr. Ledwith has a name which my memory connects with 
treasonable doings and savings. He must remain for a 
few hours at least in the jail.” 


145 


“ This is not at all pleasant/’ said Captain Sydenham 
pugnaciously. “I could have let these friends of my 
friends go without troubling you about them. I wished 
to make it easier for them to travel to Dublin by bringing 
them before you, and here is my reward.” 

“ I wish you had. Captain,” said the magistrate. “ But 
now you’ve done it, neither is free to do more than follow 
the routine. We have enough real work without annoy- 
ing honest travelers. However, it’s only a matter of a 
few hours.” 

“ Then you had better telegraph to Lord Constantine,” 
said Sydenham to Grahame. 

Folsom started at the name and looked at the party with 
a puzzled frown. Grahame wrote on a sheet of paper the 
legend: “A telegram from you to the authorities here 
will get Honora and her party out of much trouble.” 

“ Is it as warm as that ? ” said the Captain with a smile, 
as he read the lines and handed the paper to Folsom with 
a broad grin. 

“ I’m in for it now,” groaned Folsom to himself as he 
read. “ Wish I’d let the Captain alone and tended to 
strict business.” 

While the wires were humming between Dublin and 
Cruarig, Captain Sydenham spent his spare time in atoning 
for his blunders against the comfort of the party. Led- 
with having been put in jail most honorably, the Captain 
led the others to the inn and located them sumptuously. 
He arranged for lunch, at which he was to join them, and 
then left them to their ease while he transacted his own 
affairs. 

“ One of the men you read about,” said Grahame, as 
the three looked at one another dolorously. “ Sorry I 
didn’t confide in him from the start. How it’s a dead 
certainty that your father stays in jail, Honora, and I may 
be with him.” 

“ I really can’t see any reason for such despair,” said 
Arthur. 

“ Of course not,” replied Grahame. cc But even Lord 
Constantine could not save Owen Ledwith from prison in 
times like these, if the authorities learn his identity.” 

“ What is to be done ?” inquired Honora. 

“ You will stay with your father of course ? ” Honora 
nodded, 
io 


146 


“ I’m going to make a run for it at the first oppor- 
tunity,” said Grahame. “ I can be of no use here, and 
we must get back the ship safe and sound. Arthur, if 
they hold Ledwith you will have the honor of working for 
his freedom. Owen is an American citizen. He ought 
to have all the rights and privileges of a British subject 
in his trial, if it comes to that. He won’t get them unless 
the American minister to the court of St. James insists 
upon it. Said minister, being a doughhead, will not in- 
sist. He will even help to punish him. It will be your 
business to go up to London and make Livingstone do his 
duty if you have to choke him black in the face. If the 
American minister interferes in this case Lord Constan- 
tine will be a power. If the said minister hangs back, or 
says, hang the idiot, my Lord will not amount to a hill of 
beans.” 

“ If it comes to a trial,” said Arthur, “ won’t Ledwith 
get the same chance as any other lawbreaker ? ” 

Honora and Grahame looked at each other as much as 
to say : “ Poor innocent ! ” 

“ When there’s a rising on, my dear boy, there is no 
trial for Irishmen. Arrest means condemnation, and all 
that follows is only form. Go ahead now and do your 
best.” 

Before lunch the telegrams had done their best and 
worst. The party was free to go as they came with the 
exception of Ledwith. They had a merry lunch, en- 
livened by a telegram from Lord Constantine, and by 
Folsom’s discomfiture. Then Grahame drove away to the 
ship, Arthur set out for Dublin, and Honora was left 
alone with her dread and her sorrows, which Captain 
Sydenham swore would be the shortest of her life. 


147 


CHAPTER XVI. 

CASTLE MOYtf A. 

The Dillon party took possession of Castle Moyna, its 
mistress, and Captain Sydenham, who had a fondness for 
Americans. Mona Everard owned any human being who 
looked at her the second time, as the oriole catches the 
eye with its color and then the heart with its song ; and 
Louis had the same magnetism in a lesser degree. Life 
at the castle was not of the liveliest, but with the Captain’s 
aid it became as rapid as the neighboring gentry could 
have desired. Anne cared little, so that her children had 
their triumph. Wrapped in her dreams of amethyst, the 
exquisiteness of this new world kept her in ecstasy. Its 
smallest details seemed priceless. She performed each 
function as if it were the last of her life. While rebuffs 
were not lacking, she parried them easily, and even the 
refusal of the parish priest to accept her aid in his bazaar 
did not diminish the delight of her happy situation. She 
knew the meaning of his refusal : she, an upstart, having 
got within the gates of Castle Moyna by some servility, 
when her proper place was a shebeen in Cruarig, offered 
him charity from a low motive. She felt a rebuke from a 
priest as a courtier a blow from his king ; but keeping her 
temper, she made many excuses for him in her own mind, 
without losing the firm will to teach him better manners 
in her own reverent way. The Countess heard of it, and 
made a sharp complaint to Captain Sydenham. The old 
dowager had a short temper, and a deep gratitude for 
Anne’s remarkable services in N ew York. Nor did she care 
to see her guests slighted. 

“ Father Roslyn has treated her shabbily. She suggested 
a booth at his bazaar, offered to fit it up herself and to 
bring the gentry to buy. She was snubbed : ‘ neither your 
money nor your company.’ You must set that right, 
Sydenham,” said she. 


148 


“ He shall weep tears of brine for it,” answered the 
Captain cheerfully. 

“ Tell him/’ said the Dowager, “ the whole story, if your 
priest can appreciate it, which I doubt A Cavan peasant, 
who can teach the fine ladies of Dublin how to dress and 
how to behave ; whose people are half the brains of New 
York ; the prize-fighter turned senator, the Boss of Tam- 
many, the son with a gold mine. Above all, don’t forget 
to tell how she may name the next ambassador to England.” 

They laughed in sheer delight at her accomplishments 
and her triumphs. 

“ Gad, but she’s the finest woman,” the Captain de- 
clared. “ At first I thought it was acting, deuced fine 
acting. But it’s only her nature finding expression. 
What d’ye think she’s planning now ? An audience with 
the Pope, begad, special, to present an American flag and 
a thousand pounds. And she laid out Lady Cruikshank 
yesterday, stone cold. Said her ladyship : ‘ Quite a com- 
pliment to Ireland, Mrs. Dillon, that you kept the Cavan 
brogue so well.’ Said Mrs. Dillon : ‘ It was all I ever got 
from Ireland, and a brogue in New York is always a rec- 
ommendation to mercy from the court ; then abroad it 
marks one off from the common English and their common 
Irish imitators.’ Did she know of Lady Cruikshank’s 
effort to file off the Dublin brogue ? ” 

“ Likely. She seems to know the right thing at the 
right minute.” 

Evidently Anne’s footing among the nobility was fairly 
secure in spite of difficulties. There were difficulties below 
stairs also, and Judy Haskell had the task of solving them, 
which she did with a success quite equal # to Anne’s. She 
made no delay in seizing the position of arbiter in the 
servants’ hall, not only of questions touching the Dillons, 
and their present relations with the Irish nobility, but 
also on such vital topics as the rising, the Fenians, the 
comparative rank of the Irish at home and those in 
America, and the standing of the domestics in Castle 
Moyna from the point of experience and travel. Inwardly 
Judy had a profound respect for domestics in the service 
of a countess, and looked to find them as far above herself 
as a countess is above the rest of the world. She would 
have behaved humbly among the servants of Castle Moyna, 
had not their airs betrayed them for an inferior grade. 


149 

“ These Americans,” said the butler with his nose in the 
air. 

“As if ye knew anythin’ about Americans,” said Judy 
promptly. “ Have ye ever thraveled beyant Donegal, me 
good little man ? ” 

“ It wasn’t necessary, me good woman.” 

“ Faith, it’s yerself ’ud be blowin’ about it if ye had. 
An’ d’ye think people that thraveled five thousan’ miles 
to spind a few dollars on yer miserable country wud luk at 
the likes o’ ye ? Keep yer criticisms on these Americans in 
yer own buzzum. It’s not becomin’ that an ould gossoon 
shud make remarks on Mrs. Dillon, the finest lady in New 
York, an’ the best dhressed at this minnit in all Ireland. 
Whin ye’ve thraveled as much as I have ye can have me 
permission to talk on what ye have seen.” 

“ The impidence o’ some people,” said the cook with a 
loud and scornful laugh. 

“ If ye laughed that way in New York,” said Judy, 
“ ye’d be sint to the Island for breaking the public peace. 
A laugh like that manes no increase o’ wages.” 

“ The Irish in New York are allowed to live there I be- 
lave,” said a pert housemaid with a simper. 

“ Oh, yes, ma’am, an’ they are also allowed to sind home 
the rint o’ their houses to kape the poor Irish from starvin’, 
an’ to help the lords an’ ladies of yer fine castles to kape 
the likes o’ yees in a job.” 

“ ’Twas always a wondher to me,” said the cook to the 
housemaid, as if no other was present, “ how these Amer- 
ican bigbugs wid their inilligant ways ever got as far as the 
front door o’ the Countess.” 

“ I can tell ye how Mrs. Dillon got in so far that her fut 
is on the neck of all o’ yez this minnit,” said Judy. “ If 
she crooked her finger at ye this hour, ye’d take yer pack on 
yer back an’ fut it over to yer father’s shanty, wid no more 
chance for another place than if ye wor in Timbuctoo. 
The Countess o’ Skibbereen kem over to New York to 
hould a concert, an’ to raise money for the cooks an’ 
housemaids an’ butlers that were out of places in Donegal. 
Well, she cudn’t get a singer, nor she couldn’t get a hall, 
nor she cudn’t sell a ticket, till Mrs. Dillon gathered around 
her the Boss of Tammany Hall, an’ Senator Dillon, an’ 
Mayor Birmingham, an’ Mayor Livingstone, an’ says to 
thim, ‘ let the Countess o’ Skibbereen have a concert an’ let 


150 


Tammany Hall buy every ticket she has for sale, an do 
yeez turn out the town to make the concert a success/ 
An* thin she got the greatest singer in the world, Honora 
Ledwith, that ye cudn’t buy to sing in Ireland for all the 
little money there’s in it, to do the singin’, an’ so the 
Countess med enough money to buy shirts for the whole of 
Ireland. But not a door wud have opened to her if Mrs. 
Dillon hadn’t opened them all be wan word. That’s why 
Castle Moyna is open to her to the back door. For me I 
wondher she shtays in the poor little place, whin the 
palace o’ the American ambassador in London expects her.” 

The audience, awed at Judy’s assurance, was urged by 
pride to laugh haughtily at this last statement. 

“An’ why wudn’t his palace be open to her,” Judy 
continued with equal scorn. “ He’s afraid of her. She 
kem widin an ace o’ spoilin’ his chances o’ goin’ to London 
an’ bowin’ to the Queen. An, bedad, he’s not sure of his 
futtin’ while she’s in it, for she has her mind on the place 
for Mr. Vandervelt, the finest man in New York wid a 
family that goes back to the first Dutchman that ever 
was, a little fellow that sat fishin’ in the say the day St. 
Pathrick sailed for Ireland. Now Mr. Livingstone sez to 
Mrs. Dillon whin he was leavin’ for London, ‘ Come over,’ 
sez he, c an’ shtay at me palace as long as I’m in it.’ She’s 
goin’ there whin she laves here, but I don’t see why she 
shtays in this miserable place, whin she cud be among her 
aquils, runnin’ in an out to visit the Queen like wan o’ 
thimselves.” 

By degrees, as Judy’s influence invaded the audience, 
alarm spread among them for their own interests. They 
had not been over polite to the Americans, since it was 
not their habit to treat any but the nobility with more 
than surface respect. New York most of them hoped to 
visit and dwell within some day. What if they had 
offended the most influential of the great ladies of the 
western city ! Judy saw their fear and guessed its 
motive. 

“ Me last word to the whole o’ yez is, get down an yer 
knees to Mrs. Dillon afore she l’aves, if she’ll let yez. I 
hear that some o’ ye think of immigratin’ to New York. 
Are yez fit for that great city ? What are yer wages here? 
Mebbe a pound a month. In our city the girls get four 
pounds for doin’ next to nothin’. An’ to see the dhress 


151 


an’ the shtyle o’ thim fine girls ! Why, yez end n’t tell 
them from their own misthresses. What wudyez be doin’ 
in New York, widyer clothes thrun on yez be a pitchfork, 
an’ lukkin’ as if they were made in the ark ? But if ye 
wor as smart as the lady that waits on the Queen, not wan 
fut will ye set in New York if Mrs. Dillon says no. Yez 
may go to Hartford or Newark, or some other little place, 
an’ yez’ll be mighty lucky if ye’re not sint sthraight on to 
quarantine wid the smallpox patients an’ the Turks.” 

The cook gave a gasp, and Judy saw that she had won 
the day. One more struggle, however, remained before her 
triumph was complete. The housekeeper and the butler 
formed an alliance against her, and refused to be awed by 
the stories of Mrs. Dillon’s power and greatness ; but as 
became their station their opposition was not expressed in 
mere language. They did not condescend to bandy woids 
with inferiors. The butler fought his battle with Judy 
by simply tilting his nose toward the sky on meeting her. 
Judy thereupon tilted her nose in the same fashion, so 
that the servants’ hall was convulsed at the sight, and the 
butler had to surrender or lose his dignity. The house- 
keeper carried on the battle by an attempt to stare Judy 
out of countenance with a formidable eye ; and the great- 
est staring-match on the part of rival servants in Castle 
Moyna took place between the representative of the Skib- 
bereens and the maid of New York. The former may 
have thought her eye as good as that of the basilisk, but 
found the eye of Miss Haskell much harder. 

The housekeeper one day met Judy descending the hack 
stairs. She fixed her eyes upon her with the clear design of 
transfixing and paralyzing this brazen American. Judy 
folded her arms and turned her glance upon her foe. The 
nearest onlookers held their breaths. Overcome by the 
calm majesty of Judy’s iron glance, which pressed against 
her face like a spear, the housekeeper smiled scornfully and 
began to ascend the stairs with scornful air. Judy stood 
on the last step and turned her neck round and her eyes 
upward until she resembled the Gorgon. She had the ad- 
vantage of the housekeeper, who in mounting the stairs had 
to watch her steps ; but in any event the latter was fore- 
doomed to defeat. The eyes that had not blinked before 
Anne Dillon, or the Senator, or Mayor Livingstone, or 
John Everard, or the Countess of Skibbereen, or the great 


152 


Sullivan, and liad modestly held their own under the 
charming glance of the Monsignor, were not to be dazzled 
by the fiercest glance of a mere Donegal housekeeper. 
The contempt in Judy’s eyes proved too much for the poor 
creature, and at the top of the stairs, with a hysterical 
shriek, she burst into tears and fled humbled. 

“ I knew you’d do it,” said Jerry the third butler. 
“ It’s not in thim wake craythurs to take the luk from 
you, Miss Haskell.” 

“ Ye’re the wan dacint boy in the place,” said Judy, 
remembering many attentions from the shrewd lad. “ An’ 
as soon as iver ye come to Ne w York, an’ shtay long 
enough to become an American, I’ll get ye a place on the 
polis.” 

From that day the position of the Dillon party became 
something celestial as far as the servants were concerned, 
while Judy, as arbiter in the servants’ hall, settled all 
questions of history, science, politics, dress, and gossip, by 
judgments from which there was no present appeal. All 
these details floated to the ears of Captain Sydenham, who 
was a favorite with Judy and shared her confidence ; and 
the Captain saw to it that the gossip of Castle Moyna also 
floated into the parish residence daily. Some of it was so 
alarming that Father Roslyn questioned his friend Captain 
Sydenham, who dropped in for a quiet smoke now and 
then. 

“ Who are these people, these Americans, do you know, 
Captain ? I mean those just now stopping with the 
Countess of Skibbereen ?” 

“That reminds me,” replied the Captain. “Didn’t 
you tell me Father William was going to America this 
winter on a collecting tour ? Well, if you get him the 
interest of Mrs. Dillon his tour is assured of success before 
he begins it.” 

A horrible fear smote the heart of the priest, nor did he 
see the peculiar smile on the Captain’s face. Had he 
made the dreadful mistake of losing a grand opportunity 
for his brother, soon to undertake a laborious mission ? 

“ Why do you think so ? ” he inquired. 

“ You would have to be in New York to understand it,” 
replied the Captain. “ But the Countess of Skibbereen 
is not a patch in this county compared to what Mrs. Dillon 
is in New York. ” 


153 


“ Oh, dear me ! Do you tell me ! ” 

“ Her people are all in politics, and in the church, and 
in business. Her son is a— well, he owns a gold mine, 
I think, and he is in politics, too. In fact, it seems pretty 
clear that if you want anything in New York Mrs. 
Dillon is the woman to get it, as the Countess found 
it. And if you are not wanted in New York by Mrs. 
Dillon, then you must go west as far as Chicago. ” 

“ Oh, how unfortunate ! I am afraid, Captain, that I 
have made a blunder. Mrs. Dillon came to me — most 
kindly of course — and made an offer to take care of a booth 
at the bazaar, and I refused her. You know my feeling 
against giving these Americans any foothold amongst 
us ” 

“ Don’t tell that to Father William, or he will never 
forgive you,” said the Captain. “ But Mrs. Dillon is for- 
giving as well as generous. Do the handsome thing by 
her. Go up to the castle and explain matters, and she 
will forget your ” 

“Oh, call it foolishness at once,” said the priest. 
“ I’m afraid I’m too late, but for the sake of charity I’ll 
do what you say.” 

A velvety welcome Anne gave him. Before all others 
she loved the priest, and but that she had to teach Father 
Roslyn a lesson he would have seen her falling at his feet 
for his blessing. In some fashion he made explanation 
and apology. 

“Father dear, don’t mention it. Really, it is my place 
to make explanations and not yours. I was hurt, of course, 
that you refused the little I can give you, but I knew other 
places would be the richer by it, and charity is good every- 
where.” 

“Avery just thought, madam. It would give us all 
great pleasure if you could renew your suggestion to take 
a booth at the bazaar. We are all very fond of Americans 
here — that is, when we understand them ” 

“ Only that I’m going up to London, father dear, I’d 
be only too happy. It was not the booth 1 was thinking 
of, you see, but the bringing of all the nobility to spend a 
few pounds with you.” 

“ Oh, my dear, you could never have done it,” cried 
he in astonishment ; “ they are all Protestants, and very 
dark.” 


154 


“ We do it in America, and why not here ? I nsed to 
get more money from Protestant friends than from me 
own. When I told them of my scheme here they all 
promised to come for the enjoyment of it. Now, Fm so 
sorry I have to go to London. 1 must present my letters 
to the ambassador before he leaves town, and then we are 
in a hurry to get to Rome before the end of August. 
Cardinal Simeoni has promised us already a private audi- 
ence with the Pope. Now, father dear, if there is any- 
thing I can do for you in Rome — of course the booth must 
go up at the bazaar just the same, only the nobility will 
not be there — but at Rome, now, if you wanted anything.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Dillon you overwhelm me. There 
is nothing I want for myself, but my brother. Father 
William ” 

“ Oh, to be sure, your brother,” cried Anne, when the 
priest paused in confusion ; “ let him call on us in Rome, 
and I will take him to the private audience.” 

“ Oh, thank you, thank you, my dear madam, but my 
brother is not going to Rome. It is to America I refer. 
His bishop has selected him from among many eminent 
priests of the diocese to make a collecting tour in America 
this winter. And I feel sure that if a lady of your rank 
took an interest in him, it would save him much labor, 
and, what I fear is unavoidable, hardship.” 

Anne rose up delighted and came toward Father Roslyn 
with a smile. She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. 

“ Father dear, whisper.” 

He bent forward. There was not a soul within hearing 
distance, but Anne loved a dramatic effect. 

(i He need never leave New York. I'll see that Father 
William has the entree into the diocese, and I’ll take care 
of him until he leaves for home.” 

She tapped him on the shoulder with her jeweled finger, 
and gave him a most expressive look of assurance. 

“ Oh, how you overwhelm me,” cried Father Roslyn. 
“ I thank you a hundred times, but I won’t accept so kind 
an offer unless you promise me that you will preside at a 
booth in the bazaar.” 

Of course she promised, much as the delay might em- 
barrass the American minister in London, and the Car- 
dinal who awaited with impatience her arrival in Rome. 

The bazaar became a splendid legend in the parish of 


155 


Cruarig ; how its glory was of heaven ; how Mrs. Dillon 
seemed to hover over it like an angel or a queen ; how 
Father Roslyn could hardly keep out of her booth long 
enough to praise the others ; how the nobility flocked 
about it every night of three, and ate wonderful dishes at 
fancy prices, and were dressed like princes ; and how Judy 
Haskell ruled the establishment with a rod of iron from 
two to ten each day, devoting her leisure to the explana- 
tion and description of the booths once presided over by 
her mistress in the great city over seas. All these inci- 
dents and others as great passed out of mind before the 
happenings which shadowed the last days at Castle Moyna 
with anxiety and dread. 

The Dowager gave a fete in honor of her guests one 
afternoon, and all the county came. As a rule the gentry 
sneered at the American guests of the Countess, and found 
half their enjoyment at a garden fete in making fun of 
the hostess and her friends in a harmless way. There 
might not have been so much ridicule on this occasion 
for two reasons : the children were liked, and their guar- 
dian was dreaded. Anne had met and vanquished her 
critics in the lists of wit and polite insolence. Then a few 
other Americans, discovered by Captain Sydenham, were 
present, and bore half the brunt of public attention. The 
Dillons met their countrymen for a moment and forgot 
them, even forgot the beautiful woman whose appearance 
held the eyes of the guests a long time. Captain Syden- 
ham was interesting them in a pathetic story of battle 
and death which had just happened only a few miles away. 
When the two boys were dead beside the stream in the 
glen, and the tourists had met their fate before the 
magistrate in Cruarig, he closed the story by saying, 

“And now down in the hotel is the loveliest Irish girl 
you ever saw, waiting with the most patient grief for the 
help which will release her father from jail. Am I not 
right, Mrs. Endicott ? ” 

The beautiful American looked up with a smile. 

“ Yes, indeed,” she replied in a clear, rich voice. “ It 
is long since I met a woman that impressed me more than 
this lonely creature. The Captain was kind enough to 
take me to see her, that I might comfort her a little. But 
she seemed to need little comfort. Very self-possessed 
you know. Used to that sort of thing.” 


156 


“ The others got scot free, no thanks to old Folsom,” 
said the Captain, “ and one went off to their yacht and 
the other intended to start for Dublin to interest the 
secretary. The Countess should interest herself in her. 
Egad, don't you know, it's worth the trouble to take an 
interest in such a girl as Honora Ledwith.'' 

“ Honora Ledwith,'' said the Dowager at a little distance. 
“ What do you know of my lovely Honora ? " 

Already in the course of the story a suspicion had been 
shaping itself in Anne's mind. The ship must have ar- 
rived, it was time to hear from Arthur and his party ; the 
story warned her that a similar fate might have overtaken 
her friends. Then she braced herself for the shock which 
came with Honora's name ; and at the same moment, as 
in a dream, she saw Arthur swinging up the lawn towards 
her group ; whereupon she gave a faint shriek, and rose 
up with a face so pale that all stretched out hands to her 
assistance ; but Arthur was before them, as she tottered 
to him, and caught her in his arms. After a moment of 
silence, Mona and Louis ran to his side, Captain Sydenham 
said some words, and then the little group marched off the 
lawn to the house, leaving the Captain to explain matters, 
and to wonder at the stupidity which had made him over- 
look the similarity in names. 

“Why, don't you know,'' said he to Mrs. Endicott, 
“ her son was one of the party of tourists that Folsom 
sent to jail, and I never once connected the names. Absurd 
and stupid on my part.” 

“Charming young man,” said the lady, as she excused 
herself and went off. Up in one of the rooms of Castle 
Moyna, when the excitement was over and the explana- 
tions briefly made, Mona at the window described to 
Arthur the people of distinction, as they made their adieus 
to their hostess and expressed sympathy with the sudden 
and very proper indisposition of Mrs. Dillon. He could 
not help thinking how small the world is, what a puzzle 
is the human heart, how weird is the life of man. 

“There she is now,” cried Mona, pointing to Mrs. 
Endicott and an old lady, who were bidding adieu to the 
Countess of Skibbereen. “ A perfectly lovely face, a 
striking figure — oh, why should Captain Sydenham say 
our Honora was the loveliest girl he ever saw ? — and he 
saw them together you know ” 


157 


“ Saw whom together ? ” said Arthur. 

“ Why, Mrs. Eudicott called on Honora at the hotel, 
you know.” 

“Oh 1” 

He leaned out of the window and took a long look at 
her with scarcely an extra beat of the heart, except for 
the triumph of having met her face to face and remained 
unknown. His longest look was for Aunt Lois, who loved 
him, and was now helping to avenge him. Strange, 
strange, strange ! 

“'Well ?” cried Mona eagerly. 

(t The old lady is a very sweet-looking woman,” he an- 
swered. “ On the whole I think Captain Sydenham was 
right.” 


158 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE AMBASSADOR. 

After the happy reunion at Castle Moyna there followed 
a council of war. Captain Sydenham treasonably presided, 
and Honora sat enthroned amid the silent homage of her 
friends, who had but one thought, to lift the sorrow from 
her heart, and banish the pallor of anxiety from her lovely 
face. Her violet eyes burned with fever. The Captain 
drew his breath when he looked at her. 

“ And she sings as she looks,” whispered the Countess 
noting his gasp. 

“ It’s a bad time to do anything for Mr. Ledwith,” the 
Captain said to the little assembly. “ The Fenian move- 
vent has turned out a complete failure here in Ireland, 
and abroad too. As its stronghold was the United States, 
you can see that the power of the American Minister will 
be much diminished. It is very important to approach 
him in the right way, and count every inch of the road 
that leads to him. We must not make any mistakes, ye 
know, if only for Miss Ledwith’s sake.” 

His reward was a melting glance from the wonderful 
eyes. 

“ I know the Minister well, and I feel sure he will help 
for the asking,” said Anne. 

“ Glad you’re so hopeful, mother, but some of us are 
not,” Arthur interjected. 

“Then if you fail with His Excellency, Artie,” she re- 
plied composedly, “ I shall go to see him myself.” 

Captain and Dowager exchanged glances of admiration. 

“ Now, there are peculiarities in our trials here, trials of 
rebels I mean ... I haven’t time to explain them ...” 
Arthur grinned . . . “ but they make imperative a certain 
way of acting, d’ye see ? If I were in Mr. Dillon’s place I 
should try to get one of two things from the American Min- 
ister : either that the Minister notify Her Majesty’s govern- 


159 


ment that he will have his representative at the trial of Led- 
with ; or, if the trial is begun . . . they are very summary 
at times . . . that the same gentleman inform the govern- 
ment that he will insist on all the forms being observed. ” 

“ What effect would these notifications have ? ” Arthur 
asked. 

“ Gad, most wonderful,” replied the Captain. “ If the 
Minister got in his warning before the trial began, there 
wouldn’t be any trial ; and if later, the trial would end 
in acquittal.” 

Every one looked impressed, so much so that the Cap- 
tain had to explain. 

“ I don’t know how to explain it to strangers — we all 
know it here, doncheknow — but in these cases the dif- 
ferent governments always have some kind of an under- 
standing. Ledwith is an American citizen, for example ; 
he is arrested as an insurgent, no one is interested in him, 
the government is in a hurry, a few witnesses heard him 
talk against the government, and off he goes to jail. It’s 
a troublesome time, d’ye see ? But suppose the other 
case. A powerful friend interests the American Minister. 
That official notifies the proper officials that he is going 
to watch the trial. This means that the Minister is satis- 
fied of the man’s innocence. Government isn’t going to 
waste time so, when there are hundreds to be tried and 
deported. So he goes free. Same thing if the Minister 
comes in while the trial is going on, and threatens to 
review all the testimony, the procedure, the character of 
the witnesses. He simply knocks the bottom out of the 
case, and the prisoner goes free.” 

“ I see your points,” said Arthur, smiling. “ I appre- 
ciate them. J ust the same, we must have every one work- 
ing on the case, and if I should fail the others must be 
ready to play their parts.” 

“ Command us all,” said the Captain with spirit. 
“ You have Lord Constantine in London. He’s a host. 
But remember we are in the midst of the trouble, and 
home influence won’t be a snap of my finger compared 
with the word of the Minister.” 

“ Then the Minister’s our man,” said Anne with de- 
cision. “ If Arthur fails with him, then every soul of us 
must move on London like an Irish army, and win or die. 
So, my dear Honora, take the puckers out of your face, 


160 


and keep your heart light. I know a way to make Quincy 
Livingstone dance to any music I play.” 

The smiles came back to Honora’s face, hearts grew 
lighter, and Arthur started for London, with little con- 
fidence in the good-will of Livingstone, but more in his 
own ability to force the gentleman to do his duty. He ran 
up against a dead wall in his mission, however, for the 
question of interference on behalf of American citizens in 
English jails had been settled months before in a con- 
ference between Livingstone and the Premier, although 
feeling was cold and almost hostile between the two 
governments. Lord Constantine described the position 
with the accuracy of a theorist in despair. 

“There’s just a chance of doing something for Led- 
with,” he said dolorously. 

“ By your looks a pretty poor one, I think,” Arthur 
commented. 

“ Oh, it’s got to be done, doncheknow,” he said irritably. 
“ But that da — that fool, Livingstone, is spoiling the stew 
with his rot. And I’ve been watching this pot boil for 
five years at least.” 

“ What’s wrong with our representative ? ” affecting 
innocence. 

“ What’s right with him would be the proper question,” 
growled his lordship. 

“ In Ledwith’s case the wrong is that he’s gone and 
given assurances to the government. He will not interfere 
with their disposition of Fenian prisoners, when these 
prisoners are American citizens. In other words, he has 
given the government a free hand. He will not be in- 
clined to show Led with any favor.” 

“ A free hand,” repeated Arthur, fishing for informa- 
tion. “ And what is a free hand ? ” 

“ Well, he could hamper the government very much 
when it is trying an American citizen for crimes committed 
on British soil. Such a prisoner must get all the privi- 
leges of a native. He must be tried fairly, as he would 
be at home, say.” 

“Well, surely that strong instinct of fair play, that 
sense of justice so peculiarly British, of which we have all 
heard in the school-books, would ” 

“ Drop it,” said Lord Constantine fiercely. “ In war 
there’s nothing but the brute left. The Fenians — may 


161 


the plague take them . . . will be hung, shipped to Botany 
Bay, and left to rot in the home prisons, without respect to 
law, privilege, decency. Rebels must be wiped out, donche 
know. I don’t mind that. They’ve done me enough 
harm . . . put back the alliance ten years at least . . . and 
left me howling in the wilderness. Livingstone will let 
every Fenian of American citizenship be tried like his 
British mates . . . that is, they will get no trial at all, except 
inform. They will not benefit by their American ties.” 

“ Why should he neglect them like that ?” 

“ He lias theories, of course. I heard him spout them 
at some beastly reception somewhere. Too many Irish in 
America — too strong — too popish — mnst be kept down — 
alliance between England and the United States to keep 
them down ” 

“ I remember he was one of your alliance men,” pro- 
vokingly. 

“ Alas, yes,” mourned his lordship. “ The Fenians 
threatened to make mince-meat of it, but they're done up 
and knocked down. Now, this Livingstone proposes a 
new form of mincing, worse than the Fenians a thousand 
times, begad.” 

“ Begad,” murmured Arthur. “ Surely you’re getting 
excited.” 

“ The alliance is now to be argued on the plea of 
defense against popish aggressions, Arthur. This is the 
unkind cut. Before, we had to reunite the Irish and the 
English. Now, we must soothe the prejudices of bigots 
besides. Oh, but you should see the programme of His 
Excellency for the alliance in his mind. You’ll feel it 
when you get back home. A regular programme, donche- 
know. The first number has the boards now : general 
indignation of the hired press at the criminal recklessness 
of the Irish in rebelling against our benign rule. When 
that chorus is ended, there comes a solo by an escaped nun. 
Did you ever hear of Sister Claire Thingamy ” 

“ Saw her — know her — at a distance. What is she to 
sing ? ” 

“ A book — confessions and all that thing — revelations 
of the horrors of papist life. It’s to be printed by thou- 
sands and scattered over the world. After that Fritters, 
our home historian at Oxford, is to travel in your country 
and lecture to the cream of society on the beauty of Brit- 
ii 


162 


ish rule over the Irish. He is to affect the classes. 
The nun and the press are to affect the masses. Between 
them what becomes of the alliance ? Am I not patient ? 
My plan demanded harmonious and brotherly feelings 
among all parties. Isn’t that what an alliance must 
depend on ? But Livingstone takes the other tack. To 
bring about his scheme we shall all be at each other’s 
throats. Talk of the Kilkenny cats and Donny brook fair, 
begad ! ” 

“ I don’t wonder you feel so badly,” Arthur said, laugh- 
ing. “ But see here : we’re not afraid of Livingstone. 
We’ve knocked him out before, and we can do it again. It 
will be interesting to go back home, and help to undo that 
programme. If you can manage him here, rely on Gra- 
hame and me and a few others in New York, to take the 
starch out of him at home. What’s all this to do with 
Led with ?” 

“ Nothing,” said his lordship with an apology. “ But 
my own trouble seems bigger than his. We’ll get him 
out, of course. Go and see Livingstone, and talk to him 
on the uppish plan. Demand the rights and privileges 
of the British subject for our man. You won’t get any 
satisfaction, but a stiff talk will pave the way for my 
share in the scheme. You take the American ground, 
and I come in on the British ground. We ought to make 
him ashamed between us, doncheknow.” 

Arthur had doubts of that, but no doubt at all that 
Lord Constantine owned the finest heart that ever beat in 
a man. He felt very cheerful at the thought of shaking 
up the Minister. Half hopeful of success, curious to test 
the strings which move an American Minister at the court 
of St. James, anxious about Honora and Owen, he pre- 
sented himself at Livingstone’s residence by appointment, 
and received a gracious welcome. Unknown to them- 
selves, the two men had an attraction for each other. 
Fate opposed them strangely. This hour Arthur Dillon 
stood forth as the knight of a despised and desperate race, 
in a bloody turmoil at home, fighting for a little space on 
American soil, hopeful but spent with the labor of up- 
holding its ideals ; and Livingstone represented a trium- 
phant faction in both countries, which, having long made 
life bitter and bloody for the Irish, still kept before them 
the choice of final destruction or the acceptance of the 


163 


Puritan gods. To Arthur the struggle so far seemed but 
a clever game whose excitement kept sorrow from eating 
out his heart. He saw the irony rather than the tragedy 
of the contest. It tickled him immensely just now that 
Puritan faced Puritan ; the new striking at the old for 
decency’s sake ; a Protestant fighting a Protestant in 
behalf of the religious ideals of Papists. He had an ad- 
vantage over his kinsman beyond the latter’s ken ; since 
to him the humor of the situation seemed more vital than 
the tragedy, a mistake quite easy to youth. Arthur 
stated Ledwith’s case beautifully, and asked him to notify 
the British officials that the American Minister would, 
send his representative to watch the trial. 

“ Impossible,” said Livingstone. “ I am content with 
the ordinary course for all these cases.” 

“ We are not,” replied Arthur as decisively, “and we 
call upon our government to protect its citizens against 
the packed juries and other injustices of these Irish 
trials.” 

“ And what good would my interference do ? ” said 
Livingstone. Arthur grinned. 

“Your Excellency, such a notification would open the 
doors of the jail to Ledwith to-morrow. There would be 
no trial.” 

“ My instructions from the President are precise in 
this matter. We are satisfied that American citizens will 
get as fair a trial as Englishmen themselves. There will 
be no interference until I am satisfied that things are not 
going properly.” 

“ Can you tell me, then, how I am to satisfy you in 
Ledwith’s case ?” said the young man good-naturedly. 

“ I don’t think you or any one else can, Mr. Dillon. I 
know Ledwith, a conspirator from his youth. He is 
found in Ireland in a time of insurrection. That’s quite 
enough.” 

“ You forget that I have given you my word he was not 
concerned with the insurrection, and did not know it was 
so imminent ; that he went to Ireland with his daughter 
on a business matter.” 

“ All which can be shown at the trial, and will secure 
his acquittal.” 

“Neither I nor his daughter will ever be called as 
witnesses. Instead, a pack of ready informers will swear 


164 


to anything necessary to hurry him off to life imprison- 
ment/’ 

“That is your opinion.” 

“ Do you know who sent me here, your Excellency, with 
the request for your aid ? ” 

Livingstone stared his interrogation. 

“An English officer with whom you are acquainted, 
friendly to Ledwith for some one else’s sake. In plain 
words, he gave me to understand that there is no hope 
for Ledwith unless you interfere. If he goes to trial, he 
hangs or goes to Botany Bay.” 

“ You are pessimistic,” mocked Livingstone. “ It is 
the fault of the Irish that they have no faith in any govern- 
ment, because they cannot establish one of their own.” 

“Outside of New York,” corrected Arthur, with 
delightful malice. 

“ Amendment accepted.” 

“ Would you be able to interfere in behalf of iny friend 
while the trial was on, say, just before the summing up, 
when the informers had sworn to one thing, and the 
witnesses for the defense to another, if they are not shut 
out altogether ? ” 

“ Impossible. I might as well interfere now.” 

“ Then on the score of sentiment. Ledwith is failing 
into age. Even a brief term in prison may kill him.” 

“ He took the risk in returning to Ireland at this time. 
I would be willing to aid him on that score, but it would 
open the door to a thousand others, and we are unwilling 
to embarrass the English government at a trying moment.” 

“Were they so considerate when our moments were 
trying and they could embarrass us ?” 

“ That is an Irish argument.” 

“ What they said of your Excellency in New York was 
true, I am inclined to believe : that you accepted the 
English mission to be of use to the English in the present 
insurrection.” 

“Well,” said the Minister, laughing in spite of himself 
at the audacity of Arthur, “you will admit that I have 
a right to pay back the Irish for my defeat at the 
polls.” 

“You are our representative and defender,” replied 
Arthur gravely, “ and yet you leave us no alternative but 
to appeal to the English themselves.” 


165 

Livingstone began to look bored, because irritation 
scorched him and had to be concealed. Arthur rose. 

“ We are to understand, then, the friends of Ledwith, 
that you will do nothing beyond what is absolutely re- 
quired by the law, and after all formalities are complied 
with ? ” he said. 

“ Precisely.” 

“ We shall have to depend on his English friends, then. 
It will look queer to see Englishmen take up your duty 
where you deserted it.” 

The Minister waved his hand to signify that he had 
enough of that topic, but the provoking quality of Arthur’s 
smile, for he did not seem chagrined, reminded him of a 
question. 

“ Who are the people interested in Ledwith, mav I 
ask?” 

“All your old friends of New York,” said Arthur, 
“ Birmingham, Sullivan, and so on.” 

“ Of course. And the English friends who are to take 
up my duties where I desert them ? ” 

“You must know some of them,” and Arthur grinned 
again, so that the Minister slightly winced. “ Captain 
Sydenham, commanding in Donegal ” 

“I met him in New York one winter — younger brother 
to Lord Groton.” 

“ The Dowager Countess of Skibbereen.” 

“Very fine woman. Ledwith is in luck.” 

“And Lord Constantine of Essex.” 

“I see you know the value of a climax, Mr. Dillon. 
Well, good-night. I hope the friends of Mr. Ledwith will 
be able to do everything for him.” 

It irritated him that Arthur carried off the honors of 
the occasion, for the young man’s smiling face betrayed 
his belief that the mention of these noble names, and the 
fact that their owners were working for Ledwith, would 
sorely trouble the pillow of Livingstone that night. The 
contrast between the generosity of kindly Englishmen and 
his own harshness was too violent. He foresaw that to 
any determined attempt on the part of Ledwith’s English 
friends he must surrender as gracefully as might be ; and 
the problem was to make that surrender harmless. He 
had solved it by the time Anne Dillon reached London, and 
had composed that music sure to make the Minister 


166 


dance whether he would or no. In taking charge of the 
case Anne briefly expressed her opinion of her son's 
methods, 

“ You did the best you could, Arthur,” she said sweetly. 

He could not but laugh and admire. Her instincts for 
the game were far surer than his own, and her methods 
infallible. She made the road easy for Livingstone, but 
he had to walk it briskly. How could the poor man help 
himself ? She hurled at him an army of nobles, headed by 
the Countess and Lord Constantine ; she brought him 
letters from his friends at home ; there was a dinner at 
the hotel, the Dowager being the hostess ; and he was 
almost awed by the second generation of Anne's audacious 
race : Mona, red-lipped, jewel-eyed, sweeter than wild 
honey ; Louis, whose lovely nature and high purpose shone 
in his face ; and Arthur, sad-eyed, impudent, cynical, who 
seemed ready to shake dice with the devil, and had no 
fear of mortals because he had no respect for them. 
These outcasts of a few years back were able now to seize 
the threads of intrigue, and shake up two governments 
with a single pull ! He mourned while he described 
what he had done for them. There would be no trial for 
Ledwith. He would be released at once and sent home at 
government expense. It was a great favor, a very great 
favor. Even Arthur thanked him, though he had dif- 
ficulty in suppressing the grin which stole to his face 
whenever he looked at his kinsman. The Minister saw 
the grin peeping from his eyes, but forgave him. 

Arthur had the joy of bringing the good news down to 
Donegal. Anne bade him farewell with a sly smile of 
triumph. Admirable woman ! she floated above them all 
in the celestial airs. But she was gracious to her son. 
The poor boy had been so long in California that he did 
not know how to go about things. She urged him to join 
them in Rome for the visit to the Pope, and sent her love 
to Honora and a bit of advice to Owen. When Arthur 
arrived in Cruarig, whither a telegram had preceded him, 
he was surprised to find Honora Ledwith in no way relieved 
of anxiety. 

“ You have nothing to do but pack your trunk and get 
away,” he said. “ There is to be no trial, you know. 
Your father will go straight to the steamer, and the govern- 


167 


ment will pay his expenses. It ought to pay more for the 
outrage.” 

She thanked him, but did not seem to be comforted. 
She made no comment, and he went off to get an ex- 
planation from Captain Sydenham. 

“I meant to have written you about it,” said the Cap- 
tain, “ but hoped that it would have come out all right 
without writing. Ledwith maintains, and I think he’s 
quite right, that he must be permitted to go free without 
conditions, or be tried as a Fenian conspirator. The case 
is simple : an American citizen traveling in Ireland is 
arrested on a charge of complicity in the present rebellion ; 
the government must prove its case in a public trial, or, 
unable to do that, must release him as an innocent man ; 
but it does neither, for it leads him from jail to the steamer 
as a suspect, ordering him out of the country. Ledwith 
demands either a trial or the freedom of an innocent man. 
He will not help the government out of the hole in which 
accident, his Excellency the Minister, and your admir- 
able mother have placed it. Of course it’s hard on that 
adorable Miss Ledwith, and it may kill Ledwith himself, 
if not the two of them. Did you ever in your life see such 
a daughter and such a father ?” 

“ Well, all we can do is to make the trial as warm as 
possible for the government,” said Arthur. “ Counsel, 
witnesses, publicity, telegrams to the Minister, cablegrams 
to our Secretary of State, and all the rest of it.” 

“Of no use,” said the Captain moodily. “You have 
no idea of an Irish court and an Irish judge in times of 
revolt. I didn’t till I came here. If Ledwith stands 
trial, nothing can save him from some kind of a sentence.” 

“ Then for his daughter’s sake I must persuade him to 
get away.” 

“ Hope you can. All’s fair in war, you know, but 
Ledwith is the worst kind of patriot, a visionary one, 
exalted, as the French say.” 

Ledwith thanked Arthur warmly when he called upon 
him in jail, and made his explanation as the Captain had 
outlined it. 

“ Don’t think me a fool,” he said. “ I’m eager to get 
away. I have no relish for English prison life. But I 
am not going to promote Livingstone’s trickery. I am an 
American citizen. I have had no part, direct or indirect, 


168 


in this futile insurrection. I can prove it in a fair trial. 
It must be either trial or honorable release to do as any 
American citizen would do under the circumstances. If 
I go to prison I shall rely on my friends to expose Living- 
stone, and to warm up the officials at home who connive 
with him.” 

Nor would he be moved from this position, and the 
trial came oft with a speed more than creditable when 
justice deals with pirates, but otherwise scandalous. 

It ended in a morning, in spite of counsel, quibbles, and 
other ornamental obstacles, with a sentence of twenty 
years at hard labor in an English prison. To this prison 
Ledwith went the next day at noon. There had not been 
much time for work, but Arthur had played his part to 
his own satisfaction ; the Irish and American journals 
buzzed with the items which he provided, and the denun- 
ciations of the American Minister were vivid, biting, and 
widespread ; yet how puerile it all seemed before the brief, 
half contemptuous sentence of the hired judge, who thus 
roughly shoved another irritating patriot out of the way. 
The farewell to Ledwith was not without hope. Arthur 
had declared his purpose to go straight to New York and 
set every influence to work that could reach the President. 
Honora was to live near the prison, support herself by her 
singing, and use her great friends to secure a mitigation 
of his sentence, and access to him at intervals. 

“ I am going in joy,” he said to her and Arthur. 
“ Death is the lightest suffering of the true patriot. 
Nora and I long ago offered our lives for Ireland. Per- 
haps they are the only useful things we could offer, for 
we haven’t done much. Poor old country ! I wish our 
record of service had some brighter spots in it.” 

u At the expense of my modesty,” said Arthur, “ can’t 
I mention myself as one of the brighter spots ? But for 
you I would never have raised a finger for my mother’s 
land. Now, I am enlisted, not only in the cause of Erin, 
but pledged to do what I can for any race that withers 
like yours under the rule of the si ave-m aster. And that 
means my money, my time and thought and labor, and 
my life.” 

“ It is the right spirit,” said Ledwith, trembling. “ I 
knew it was in you. Not only for Ireland, but for the en- 
slaved and outraged everywhere. God be thanked, if we 


169 

poor creatures have stirred this spirit in you, lighted the 
flame- — it's enough.” 

“ I have sworn it,” cried Arthur, betrayed by his secret 
rage into eloquence. “ I did not dream the world was so 
full of injustice. I could not understand the divine sor- 
row which tore your hearts for the wronged everywhere. 
I saw you suffer. I saw later what caused your suffering, 
and I felt ashamed that I had been so long idle and blind. 
Now I have sworn to myself that my life and my wealth 
shall be at the service of the enslaved forever.” 

They went their different ways, the father to prison, 
Honora to the prison village, and Arthur with all speed to 
New York, burning with hatred of Livingstone. The 
great man had simply tricked them, had studied the mat- 
ter over with his English friends, and had found a way to 
satisfy the friends of Led with and the government at the 
same time. Well, it was a long lane that had no turning, 
and Arthur swore that he would find the turning which 
would undo Quincy Livingstone. 


170 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

JUDY VISITS THE POPE. 

He used the leisure of the voyage to review recent events, 
and to measure his own progress. For the first time since 
his calamity he had lost sight of himself in this poetic 
enterprise of LedwitlPs, successful beyond all expectation. 
In this life of intrigue against the injustice of power, this 
endless struggle to shake the grip of the master on the 
slave, he found an intoxication. Though many plans had 
come to nothing, and the prison had swallowed a thousand 
victims, the game was worth the danger and the failure. 
In the Fenian uprising the proud rulers had lost sleep and 
comfort, and the world had raised its languid eyes for a 
moment to study events in Ireland. Even the slave can 
stir the selfish to interest by a determined blow at his 
masters. In his former existence very far had been from 
him this glorious career, though honors lay in wait for 
an Endicott who took to statecraft. Shallow Horace, 
sprung from statesman, had found public life a bore. 
This feeling had saved him perhaps from the fate of 
Livingstone, who in his snail-shell could see no other 
America than a monstrous reproduction of Plymouth 
colony. 

He had learned at last that his dear country was made 
for the human race. God had guided the little ones of the 
nations, wretched but hardy, to the land, the only land 
on earth, where dreams so often come true. Like the 
waves they surged upon the American shore. With ax 
and shovel and plow, with sweat of labor and pain, they 
fought the wilderness and bought a foothold in the new 
commonwealth. What great luck that his exit from the 
old life should prove to be his entrance into the very heart 
of a simple multitude flying from the greed and stupidity 
of the decadent aristocracy of Europe ! What fitness that 
he, child of a race which had triumphantly fought injus- 
tice, poverty, Indian, and wilderness, should now be leader 


171 


for a people who had fled from injustice at home only to 
begin a new struggle with plotters like Livingstone, fool- 
ish representative of the caste-system of the old world. 

Sonia Westfield, by strange fatality, was aboard with her 
child and Aunt Lois. Her presence, when first they came 
face to face, startled him ; not the event, but the little- 
ness of the great earth ; that his hatred and her crime 
could not keep them farther apart. The Endicott in him 
rose up for a moment at the sight of her, and to his horror 
even sighed for her : this Endicott, who for a twelve- 
month had been so submerged under the new personality 
that Dillon had hardly thought of him. He sighed for 
her ! Her beauty still pinched him, and the memory of 
the first enchantment had not faded from the mind of the 
poor ghost. It mouthed in anger at the master who had 
destroyed it, who mocked at it now bitterly : you are the 
husband of Sonia Westfield, and the father of her fraud- 
ulent child ; go to them as you desire. But the phantom 
fled humiliated, while Dillon remained horror-shaken by 
that passing fancy of the Endicott to take up the dream 
of youth again. Could he by any fatality descend to this 
shame ? Her presence did not arouse his anger or his 
dread, hardly his curiosity. He kept out of her way as 
much as possible, yet more than once they met ; but only 
at the last did the vague inquiry in her face indicate that 
memory had impressions of him. 

Often he studied her from afar, when she sat deep in 
thought with her lovely eyes . . . how he had loved them 
. . . melting, damnable, false eyes fixed on the sea. He 
wondered how she bore her misery, of which not a sign 
showed on the velvet face. Did she rage at the depths of 
that sea which in an instant had engulfed her fool-hus- 
band and his fortune ? The same sea now mocked her, 
laughed at her rage, bearing on its bosom the mystery 
which she struggled to steal from time. No one could 
punish this creature like herself. She bore her executioner 
about with her, Aunt Lois, evidently returning home to 
die. That death would complete the ruin of Sonia, and 
over the grave she would learn once for all how well her 
iniquity had been known, how the lost husband had risen 
from his darkness to accuse her, how little her latest crime 
would avail her. What a dull fool Horace Endicott had 
been over a woman suspected of her own world ! Her 


172 


beauty would have kept him a fool forever, had she been 
less beastly in her pleasures. And this Endicott, down 
in the depths, sighed for her still ! 

But Arthur Dillon saw her in another light, as an un- 
clean beast from sin’s wilderness, in the light that shone 
from Honora Ledwith. Messalina cowered under the halo 
of Beatrice ! When that light shone full upon her, Sonia 
looked to his eye like a painted Phryne surprised by the 
daylight. Her corruption showed through her beauty. 
Honora ! Incomparable woman ! dear lady of whiteness ! 
pure heart that shut out earthly love, while God was to 
be served, or men suffered, or her country bled, or her 
father lived ! The thought of her purified him. He had 
not truly known his dear mother till now ; when he knew 
her in Honora, in old Martha, in charming Mona, in Mary 
Everard, in clever Anne Dillon. These women would bless 
his life hereafter. They refreshed him in mind and heart. 
It began to dawn upon him that his place in life was 
fixed, that he would never go back even though he might 
do so with honor, his shame remaining unknown. It was 
mere justice that the wretched past should be in a grave, 
doomed never to see the light of resurrection. 

His mother and her party shared the journey with him. 
The delay of Ledwith’s trial had enabled them to make 
the short tour on the Continent, and catch his steamer. 
Anne was utterly vexed with him that Ledwith had not 
escaped the prison. Her plain irritation gave Judy deep 
content. 

“She needs something to pull her down,” was her com- 
ment to Arthur, “ or she’ll fly off the earth with the light- 
ness of her head. My, my, but the airs of her since she 
laid out the ambassador, an’ talked to the Pope ! She 
can hardly spake at all now wid the grandher ! Whin 
Father Phil ... I never can call him Mounsinnyory . . . 
an’, be the way, for years wasn’t I callin’ him Morrisaniabe 
mistake, an’ the dear man never corrected me wanst . . . 
but I learned the difference over in Rome . . . where was 
I ? . . . whin Father Phil kem back from Rome he gev 
us a grand lecther on what he saw, an’ he talked for two 
hours like an angel. But Anne Dillon can on’y shut her 
eyes, an’ dhrop her head whin ye ask her a single question 
about it. Faith, I dinno if she’ll ever get over it. Isn’t 
that quare now ? ” 


173 


“ Very/’ Arthur answered, “ but give her time. So you 
saw the Pope ? ” 

“ Faith, I did, an* it surprised me a gra’dale to find out 
that he was a dago, God forgi’ me for sayin’ as much. I 
was tould be wan o' the Mounsinnyory that he was pure 
Italian. ‘ No/ sez I, ‘ the Pope may be Rooshin or German, 
though I don’t belave he’s aither, but he’s not Italian. If 
he wor, he’d have the blessed sinse to hide it, for fear the 
Irish ’ud lave the Church whin they found it out.’” 

“ What blood do you think there’s in him ? ” said 
Arthur. 

“ He looked so lovely sittin’ there whin we wint in that 
me sivin sinses left me, an’ I cudn’t rightly mek up me 
mind afterwards. Thin I was so taken up wid Mrs. 
Dillon,” and Judy laughed softly, “that I was bothered. 
But I know the Pope’s not a dago, anny more than he’s a 
naygur. I put him down in me own mind as a Roman, no 
more an’ no less.” 

“ That’s a safe guess,” said Arthur ; “ and you still have 
the choice of his being a Sicilian, a Venetian, or a Nea- 
politan.” 

“Unless,” said the old lady cautiously, “he comes of 
the same stock as Our Lord Himself.” 

“ Which would make him a Jew,” Arthur smoothly 
remarked. 

“God forgive ye, Artie ! G’long wid ye ! If Our Lord 
was a Jew he was the first an’ last an’ on’y wan of his kind.” 

“ And that’s true too. And how did you come to see 
the Pope so easy, and it in the summer time ? ” 

The expressive grin covered Judy’s face as with comic 
sunshine. 

“ I dunno,” she answered. “ If Anne Dillon made up 
her mind to be Impress of France, I dunno annythin’ nor 
anny wan that cud hould her back ; an’ perhaps the on’y 
thing that kep’ her from tryin’ to be Impress was that the 
Frinch had an Impress already. I know they had, because 
I heard her ladyship lamentin’, whin we wor in Paris, that 
she didn’t get a letther of introduction to the Impress 
from Lady Skibbereen. She had anny number of letthers 
to the Pope. I suppose that’s how we all got in, for I 
wint too, an’ the three of us looked like sisters of mercy, 
dhressed in black wid veils on our heads. Whin we dhrnv 
up to the palace, her ladyship gev a screech. 4 Mother of 


174 


heaven/ says she, ‘ but I forgot me permit, an’ we can’t get 
in to see his Holiness.’ We sarched all her pockets, but 
found on’y the square bit o’ paper, a milliner’s bill, that 
she tuk for the permit be mistake. ‘ Well, this’ll have to do/ 
says she. Says I, ‘ Wud ye insult the Pope be shakin’ a 
milliner’s bill in his face as ye go in the dure ? ’ She never 
answered me, but walked in an’ presented her bill to a 
Mounsinnyory ” 

“ What’s that?” Arthur asked. “I was never in 
Rome.” 

“ Somethin’ like the man that takes the tickets at the 
theayter, on’y he’s a priest, an’ looks like a bishop, but he 
cuts more capers than ten bishops in wan. He never 
opened the paper — faith, if he had, there’d be the fine 
surprise — so wewint in. I knew the Pope the m innit I set 
eyes on him, the heavenly man. Oh, but*I’d like to be as 
sure o’ savin’ me soul as that darlin’ saint. His eyes looked 
as if they saw heaven every night an’ inornin’. We 
dhropped on our knees, while the talkin’ was goin’ on, an’ 
if I wasn’t so frikened at bein’ near heaven itself, I’d a 
died listenin’ to her ladyship tellin’ the Pope in French — in 
French, d’ye mind ? — how much she thought of him an’ how 
much she was goin’ to spind on him while she was in Rome. 
‘God forgive ye, Anne Dillon/ says I to meself, ‘but 
ye might betther spind yer money an’ never let an.’ She 
med quite free wid him, an’ he talked back like a father, 
an’ blessed us twinty times. I dinno how I wint in or how 
I kem out. I was like a top, spinnin’ an’ spinnin’. Things 
went round all the way home, so that I didn’t dar say a 
word for fear herself might think I had been drinkin’. 
So that’s how we saw the Pope. Ye can see now the 
terrible determination of Anne Dillon, though she was the 
weeniest wan o’ the family.” 

In the early morning the steamer entered the lower bay, 
picking up Doyle Grahame from a tug which had wandered 
about for hours, not in search of news, but on the scent 
for beautiful Mona. He routed out the Dillon party in 
short order. 

“ What’s up ? ” Arthur asked sleepily. “ Are you here 
as a reporter ” 

“ As a lover,” Grahame corrected, with heaving chest 
and flashing eyes. “ The crowd that will gather to receive 
you on the dock may have many dignitaries, but I am the 


175 


only lover. That’s why I am here. If I stayed with the 
crowd, Everard, who hates me almost, would have taken 
pains to shut me out from even a plain how-de-do with my 
goddess.” 

“ I see. It’s rather early for a goddess, but no doubt she 
will oblige. You mentioned a crowd on the dock to re- 
ceive us. What crowd ? ” 

“ Your mother,” said Doyle, “is a wonderful woman. 
I have often speculated on the absence of a like ability in 
her son.” 

“Nature is kind. Wait till I’m as old as she is,” said 
the son. 

“ The crowd awaits her to do her honor. The common 
travelers will land this morning, glad to set foot on solid 
ground again. Mrs. Montgomery Dillon and her party 
are the only personages that will arrive from Europe. 
The crowd gathers to meet, not the passengers who merely 
land, but the personages who arrive from Europe.” 

“ Nice distinction. And who is the crowd ? ” 

“Monsignor O’Donnell ” 

“A very old and dear friend ” 

“ Who hopes to build his cathedral with her help. The 
Senator ” 

“ Representing the Dillon clan.” 

“ Who did not dare absent himself, and hopes for more 
inspiration like that which took him out of the ring and 
made him a great man. Vandervelt.” 

“Well, he, of course, is purely disinterested.” 

“ Didn’t she inform him of her triumph over Living- 
stone in London ? And isn’t he to be the next ambassador, 
and more power to him ? ” 

“And John Everard of course.” 

“To greet his daughter, and to prevent your humble 
servant from kissing the same,” and he sighed with pleasure 
and triumph. “ Where is she ? Shall I have long to 
wait ? Is she changed ? ” 

“ Ask her brother,” with a nod for the upper berth 
where Louis slept serenely. 

“ And of course you have news ? ” 

“ Loads of it. I have arranged for a breakfast and a 
talk after the arrival is finished. There’ll be more to eat 
than the steak.” 

The steamer swung to the pier some hours later, and 


176 


Arthur walked ashore to the music of a band which played 
decorously the popular strains for a popular hero returning 
crowned with glory. His mother arrived as became the 
late guest of the Irish nobility. Grahame handed Mona 
into her father’s arms with an exasperating gesture, and 
then plunged into his note-book, as if he did not care. 
The surprised passengers wondered what hidden greatness 
had traveled with them across the sea. On the deck Sonia 
watched the scene with dull interest, for some one had 
murmured something about a notorious Fenian getting 
back home to his kind. Arthur saw her get into a cab 
with her party a few minutes later and drive away. A 
sadness fell upon him, the bitterness which follows the 
fading of our human dreams before the strong light of 
day. 


177 


CHAPTER XIX. 

LA BELLE COLETTE. 

After the situation had been discussed over the break- 
fast for ten minutes Arthur understood the mournful ex- 
pression of the Senator, whose gaiety lapsed at intervals 
when bitterness got the better of him. 

“ The boys — the whole town is raving about you, Ar- 
tie,” said he with pride, “ over the way you managed that 
affair of Ledwith’s. There’ll be nothing too good for you 
this year, if you work all the points of the game — if you 
follow good advice, I mean. You’ve got Livingstone in a 
corner. When this cruel war is over, and it is over for 
the Fenians — they’ve had enough, God knows — it ought 
to be commencing for the Honorable Quincy Living- 
stone.” 

“You make too much of it, Senator,” Grahame re- 
sponded. “ We know what’s back of these attacks on you 
and others. It’s this way, Arthur : the Senator and I 
have been working hard for the American citizens in 
English jails, Fenians of course, and the Livingstone 
crowd have hit back at us hard. The Senator, as the 
biggest man in sight, got hit hardest.” 

“ What they say of me is true, though. That’s what 
hurts.” 

“ Except that they leave out the man whom every one 
admires for his good sense, generous heart, and great 
success,” Arthur said to console him. 

“ Of course one doesn’t like to have the sins of his 
youth advertised for two civilizations,” Grahame con- 
tinued. “ One must consider the source of this abuse 
however. They are clever men who write against us, but 
to know them is not to admire them. Bitterkin of the 
Post has his brain, stomach, and heart stowed away in a 
single sack under his liver, which is very torpid, and his 
stomach is always sour. His blood is three parts water 
from the Boyne, his food is English, his clothes are a very 
12 


178 


bad fit, and his whiskers are so hard they dull the scis- 
sors. He loves America when he can forget that Irish 
and other foreign vermin inhabit it, otherwise he detests 
it. He loves England until he remembers that he can’t 
live in it. The other fellow, Smallish, writes beautiful 
English, and lives on the old clothes of the nobility. Now 
who would mourn over the diatribes of such cats ?” 

The Senator had to laugh at the description despite his 
sadness. 

“This is only one symptom of the trouble that’s brew- 
ing. There’s no use in hiding the fact that things are 
looking bad. Since the Fenian scheme went to pieces, 
the rats have left their holes. The Irish are demoralized 
everywhere, fighting themselves as usual after a collapse, 
and their enemies are quoting them against one another. 
Here in New York the hired bravos of the press are in 
the pay of the Livingstone crowd, or of the British secret 
service. What can you expect ? ” 

“ How long will it last ? What is doing against it ? ” 
said Arthur. 

“ Ask me easier questions. Anyway, I’m only consoling 
the Senator for the hard knocks he’s getting for the sake 
of old Ireland. Cheer up, Senator.” 

“Even when Fritters made his bow,” said the mourn- 
ful Senator, “they made game of me,” and the tears rose 
to his eyes. Arthur felt a secret rage at this grief. 

“ You heard of Fritters ? ” and Arthur nodded. “ He 
arrived, and the Columbia College crowd started him off 
with a grand banquet. He’s an Oxford historian with a 
new recipe for cooking history. The Columbia professor 
who stood sponsor for him at the banquet told the world 
that Fritters would show how English government worked 
among the Irish, and how impossible is the Anglo-Saxon 
idea among peoples in whom barbarism does not die with 
the appearance and advance of civilization. He touched 
up the elegant parades and genial shindys of St. Patrick’s 
Day as ‘ inexplicable dumb shows and noise,’ — see Ham- 
let’s address to the players — and hoped the banks of our 
glorious Hudson would never witness the bloody rows pe- 
culiar to the banks of the immortal Boyne. Then he 
dragged in the Senator.” 

“ What’s his little game ? ” Arthur asked. 

“ Scientific ridicule . . . the press plays to the galleries. 


179 


and Fritters to the boxes . . . it’s a part of the general 
scheme ... I tell you there’s going to be fun galore this 
winter . . . and the man in London is at the root of the 
deviltry.” 

“ What’s to be done ? ” 

“ If we only knew,” the Senator groaned. “ If we 
could only get them under our fists, in a fair and square 
tussle ! ” 

“ I think the hinge of the Livingstone plan is Sister 
Claire, the escaped nun,” Grahame said thoughtfully. 
“ She’s the star of the combination, appeals to the true 
blue church-member with descriptions of the horrors 
of convents. Her book is out, and you’ll find a copy wait- 
ing for you at home. Dime novels are prayer-books be- 
side it. French novels are virtuous compared with it. It 
is raising an awful row. On the strength of it McMeeter 
has begun an enterprise for the relief of imprisoned nuns 
— to rescue them — house them for a time, and see them 
safely married. Sister Claire is to be matron of the house 
of escaped nuns. No one doubts her experience. Now 
isn’t that McMeeter all over ? But see the book, the Con- 
fessions of an Escaped Nun” 

“ You think she’s the hinge of the great scheme ?” 

“ She has the public eye and ear,” said Grahame, think- 
ing out his own theory as he talked. “ Her book is the 
book of the hour . . . reviewed by the press . . . the 
theme of pulpits . . . the text of speeches galore . . . 
common workmen thump one another over it at the 
bench. Now all the others, Bradford, Fritters, the Colum- 
bia professors, Bitterkin and his followers, seem to play 
second to her book. They keep away from her society, 
yet her strongest backing is from them. You know what 
I mean. It has occurred to me that if we got her his- 
tory ... it must be pretty savory . . . and printed it 
. . . traced her connection with the Livingstone crowd 
. . . it would be quite a black eye for the Honorable 
Quincy.” 

“ By George, but you’ve struck it,” cried Arthur wak- 
ing up to the situation. “ If she’s the hinge, she’s the 
party to strike at. Tell me, what became of Curran ? ” 

“ Lucky thought,” shouted Grahame. “He’s in town 
yet. The very man for us.” 

“I’m going to have it out with Livingstone,” said 


180 


Arthur, with a clear vision of an English prison and the 
patient woman who watched its walls from a window in 
the town. “ In fact, I must have it out with Livingstone. 
He’s good game, and I’d like to bring him back from 
England in a bag. Perhaps Sister Claire may be able to 
provide the bag.” 

“ Hands on it,” said Grahame, and they touched palms 
over the table, while the Senator broke into smiles. He 
had unlimited faith in his nephew. 

“ Lord Conny gave me an outline of Livingstone’s pro- 
gram before I left. He’s worried over the effect it’s 
going to have on his alliance scheme, and he cursed the 
Minister sincerely. He’ll help us. Let’s begin with Sis- 
ter Claire in the hope of bagging the whole crowd. Let 
Curran hunt up her history. Above all let him get evi- 
dence that Livingstone provides the money for her enter- 
prise.” 

Having come to a conclusion on this important matter, 
they dropped into more personal topics. 

“ Strangely enough,” said Grahame cheerfully, tc my 
own destiny is mixed up with this whole business. The 
bulwark of Livingstone in one quarter is John Everard. I 
am wooing, in the hope of winning, my future father-in- 
law.” 

“ He’s very dead,” the Senator thought. 

“ The art of wooing a father-in-law ! — what an art ! ” 
murmured Grahame. “The mother-in-law is easy. She 
wishes her daughter married. Papa doesn’t. At least in 
this case, with a girl like Mona.” 

“ Has Everard anything against you ? ” 

“ A whole litany of crimes.” 

“ What’s wrong with Everard ?” 

“ He was born the night of the first big wind , and he 
has had it in for the whole world ever since. He’s per- 
verse. Nothing but another big wind will turn him 
round.” 

Seeing Arthur puzzled over these allusions, Grahame 
explained. 

“ Think of such a man having children like the twins, 
little lumps of sweetness . . . like Louis . . . heavens ! if 
I live to be the father of such a boy, life will be complete 
. . . like my Mona . . . oh ! ” 

He stalked about the room throwing himself into poses 


181 

of ecstasy and adoration before an imaginary goddess to 
the delight of the Senator. 

“ Fve been there myself/' Arthur commented unmoved. 
“ To the question : how do you hope to woo and win 
Everard ?" 

“ First, by my book. It’s the story of just such a fool 
as he : a chap who wears the American flag in bed and 
waves it at his meals, as a nightgown and a napkin ; then, 
he is a religious man of the kind that finds no religion to 
his liking, and would start one of his own if he thought 
it would pay ; finally, he is a purist in politics, believes in 
blue glass, drinks ten glasses of filtered water a day, which 
makes him as blue as the glass, wears paper collars, and 
won't let his son be a monk because there are too many in 
the world. Now, Everard will laugh himself weak over 
this character. He's so perverse that he will never see 
himself in the mirror which I have provided/' 

“Rather risky, I should think." 

“ But that's not all," Grahame went on, “ since you are 
kind enough to listen. I’m going to wave the American 
flag, eat it, sing it, for the next year, myself. Attend : 
the descendants of the Pilgrim Fathers are going to sit on 
what is left of Plymouth Rock next spring, and make 
speeches and read poems, and eat banquets. I am to be 
invited to sing, to read the poem. Vandervelt is to see 
to that. Think of it, a wild Irishman, an exile, a con- 
spirator against the British Crown, a subject of the Pope, 
reading or singing the praises of the pilgrims, the grim 
pilgrims. Tarn in your grave. Cotton Mather, as my 
melodious verses harrow your ears." 

“ Will that impress John Everard ? " 

“ Or give him a fatal fit. The book and the poem ought 
to do the business. He can't resist. ( Never was Everard 
in this humor wooed, never was Everard in this humor 
won.' Oh, that Shakespeare had known an Everard, and 
embalmed him like a fly in the everlasting amber of his 
verse. But should these things fail, I have another mat- 
ter. While Everard rips up Church and priest and doc- 
trine at his pleasure, he has one devotion which none 
may take liberties with. He swears by the nuns. He 
is foaming at the mouth over the injury and insult 
offered them by the Confessions of Sister Claire. We ex- 
pose this clever woman'. Picture me, then, the despised 


182 


suitor, after haying pleased him by my book, and astounded 
him with my poem, and mesmerized him with the expo- 
sure of Claire, standing before him with silent lips but 
eyes speaking : I want your daughter. Can even this per- 
verse man deny me ? Don’t you think I have a chance ? ” 

“ Not with Everard,” said the Senator solemnly. “ He’s 
simply coke.” 

“ You should write a book, Doyle, on the art of wooing 
a father-in-law, and explain what you have left out here : 
how to get away with the dog.” 

“ Before marriage,” said the ready wit, “the girl looks 
after the dog ; after marriage the dog can be trained to 
bite the father-in-law.” 

Arthur found the Confessions of an Escaped Nun inter- 
esting reading from many points of view, and spent the 
next three days analyzing the book of the hour. His 
sympathy for convent life equaled his understanding of it. 
He had come to understand and like Sister Mary Mag- 
dalen, in spite of a prejudice against her costume ; but 
the motive and spirit of the life she led were as yet be- 
yond hi in. Nevertheless, he could see how earnestly the 
Confessions lied about what it pretended to expose. The 
smell of the indecent and venal informer exhaled from the 
pages. The vital feature, however, lay in the revelation 
of Sister Claire’s character, between the lines. Beneath 
the vulgarity and obscenity, poorly veiled in a mock-mod- 
est verbiage, pulsated a burning sensuality reaching the 
horror of mania. A well-set trap would have easy work 
in catching the feet of a woman related to the nymphs. 
Small wonder that the Livingstone party kept her afar off 
from their perfumed and reputable society while she did 
her nasty work. The book must have been oil to that 
conflagration raging among the Irish. The abuse of the 
press, the criticism of their friends, the reproaches of their 
own, the hostility of the government, the rage and grief 
at the failure of their hopes, the plans to annoy and cripple 
them, scorched indeed their sensitive natures ; but the book 
of the Escaped Nun, defiling their holy ones so shamelessly, 
ate like acid into their hearts. Louis came in, when he 
had completed his analysis of the volume, and begun to 
think up a plan of action. The lad fingered the book gin- 
gerly, and said timidly : 

“ I’m going to see . . . I have an appointment with this 


183 


terrible woman for to-morrow afternoon. In fact, I saw 
her this morning. I went to her office with Sister Mary 
Magdalen.” 

“ Of course the good Sister has a scheme to convert the 
poor thing ! ” Arthur said lightly, concealing his delight 
and surprise under a pretense of indifference. 

“ Well, yes,” and the lad laughed and blushed. “ And 
she may succeed too. The greater the sin the deeper the 
repentance. The unfortunate woman ” 

“Who is making a fortune on her book by the 
way ” 

— “received us very kindly. Sister Magdalen had 
been corresponding with her. She wept in admitting that 
her fall seemed beyond hope. She felt so tangled in her 
own sins that she knew no way to get out of them. Really, 
she was so sincere. When we were leaving she begged me 
to call again, and as I have to return to the seminary 
Monday I named to-morrow afternoon.” 

“You may then have the honor of converting her.” 

“It would be an honor,” Louis replied stoutly. 

“ Try it,” said Arthur after thinking the matter over. 
“ I know what force your arguments will have with her. 
And if you don’t object I’ll stay ... by the way, where is 
her office ? ” 

“ In a quiet business building on Bleecker Street, near 
Broadway.” 

“If you don’t mind I’ll stay outside in the hall, and 
rush in to act as altar-boy, when she agrees to ’vert.” 

“ I’m going for all your ridicule, Arthur.” 

“ No objection, but keep a cool head, and bear in mind 
that I am in the hall outside.” 

He suspected the motive of Sister Claire, both in mak- 
ing this appointment, and in playing at conversion with 
Sister Magdalen. Perhaps it might prove the right sort 
of trap for her cunning feet. He doubted the propriety 
of exposing Louis to the fangs of the beast, and for a 
moment he thought to warn hirn of the danger. But he 
had no right to interfere in Sister Magdalen’s affair, 
and if a beginning had to be made this adventure could 
be used effectively. He forgot the affair within the hour, 
in the business of hunting up Curran. 

He had a double reason for seeking the detective. Besides 
the task of ferreting out the record of Sister Claire, he 


184 


wished to get news of the Endicotts. Aunt Lois had 
slipped out of life two days after her return from Europe. 
The one heart that loved him truly beat for him no more. 
By this time her vengeance must have fallen, and Sonia, 
learning the full extent of her punishment, must now be 
writhing under a second humiliation and disappointment. 
He did not care to see her anguish, but he did care to hear 
of the new effort that would undoubtedly be made to find 
the lost husband. Curran would know. He met him 
that afternoon on the street near his own house. 

Yes, Pm back in the old business,” he said proudly ; 
“ the trip home so freshened me that I feel like myself 
again. Besides, I have my own home, here it is, and my 
wife lives with me. Perhaps you have heard of her, La 
Belle Colette.” 

“ And seen her too ... a beautiful and artistic 
dancer.” 

“ You must come in now and meet her. She is a trifle 
wild, you know, and once she took to drink ; but she’s a 
fine girl, a real good fellow, and worth twenty like me. 
Come right in, and we’ll talk business later.” 

La Belle Colette ! The dancer at a cheap seaside re- 
sort ! The wild creature who drank and did things ! 
This shrewd, hard fellow, who faced death as others faced 
a wind, was deeply in love and happy in her companion- 
ship. What standard of womanhood and wifehood re- 
mained to such men ? However, his wonder ceased when 
he had bowed to La Belle Colette in her own parlor, heard 
her sweet voice, and looked into the most entrancing eyes 
ever owned by a woman, soft, fiery, tender, glad, candid 
eyes. He recalled the dancer, leaping like a flame about 
the stage. In the plainer home garments he recognized 
the grace, quickness, and gaiety of the artist. Her charm 
won him at once, the spell which her rare kind have ever 
been able to cast about the hearts of men. He understood 
why the flinty detective should be in love with his wife at 
times, but not why he should continue in that state. She 
served them with wine and cigars, rolled a cigarette for 
herself, chatted with the ease and chumminess of a good 
fellow, and treated Arthur with tenderness. 

“ Richard has told me so much of you,” she explained 

“ I have so admired your exquisite art,” he replied, 
“ that we are already friends.” 


185 


“ Que vous etes bien gentil,” slie murmured, and her 
tone would have caressed the wrinkles out of the heart of 
old age. 

“ Yes, I’m back at the old game,” said Curran, when 
they got away from pleasantry “ Pm chasing after Tom 
Jones. IPs more desperate than ever. His old aunt died 
some days back, and left Tom’s wife a dollar, and Tom's 
son another dollar.” 

“ I can fancy her,” said Colette with a laugh, “ repeating 
to herself that magic phrase, two dollars, for hours and 
hours. Hereafter she will get weak at sight of the figure 
two, and things that go in twos, like married people, she 
will hate.” 

“ How easy to see that you are French, Colette,” said 
Arthur, as a compliment. She threw him a kiss from her 
pretty fingers, and gave a sidelong look at Curran. 

“ There’s a devil in her,” Arthur thought. 

“ The will was very correct and very sound,” resumed 
the detective. “ No hope in a contest if they thought of 
such a thing among the West . . . the Jones’. The heirs 
took pity on her, and gave her a lump for consolation. 
She took it and cursed them for their kindness. Her 
rage was something to see. She is going to use that lump, 
somewhere about twenty-five thousand, I think, to find her 
accursed Tom. How do I know ? That’s part of the 
prize for me if I catch up with Tom Jones within three 
years. And I draw a salary and expenses all the time. 
You should have seen Mrs. Tom the day I went to see 
her. Colette,” with a smile for his wife, “ your worst 
trouble with a manager was a summer breeze to it. You’re 
a white-winged angel in your tempers compared with Mrs. 
Tom Jones. Her language concerning the aunt and the 
vanished nephew was wonderful. I tried to remember it, 
and I couldn’t.” 

“ I can see her, I can feel with her,” cried La Belle 
Colette, jumping to her feet, and rushing through a 
pantomime of fiendish rage, which made the men laugh to 
exhaustion. As she sat down she said with emphasis, “ She 
must find him, and through you. I shall help, and so 
will our friend Dillon. It’s an outrage for any man to 
leave a woman in such a scrape . . . for a mere trifle.” 

“ She has her consolations,” said the detective ; “ but 
the devil in her is not good-natured like the devil in you. 


186 


Colette. She wants to get hold of Tom and cut him in 
little bits for what he has made her suffer.” 

“ Did you get out any plans ?” said Arthur. 

“ One. Look for him between here and Boston. That’s 
my wife’s idea. Tom Jones was not clever, but she 
says. . . Say it yourself, my dear.” 

“ Rage and disappointment, or any other strong feeling,” 
said the woman sharply, with strong puffs at her cigarette, 
“ turns a fool into a wise man for a minute. It would 
be just like this fool to have a brilliant interval while he 
dreamed of murdering his clever wife. Then he hit upon 
a scheme to cheat the detectives. It’s easy, if you know 
how stupid they are, except Dick. Tom Jones is here, on 
his own soil. He was not going to run away with a 
million and try to spend it in the desert of Sahara. He’s 
here, or in Boston, enjoying the sight of his wife stewing 
in poverty. It would be just like the sneak to do her that 
turn.” 

She looked wickedly at Arthur. What a face ! Thin, 
broad, yet finely proportioned, with short, flaxen locks 
framing it, delicate eyebrows marking the brow and 
emphasizing the beautiful eyes. A woman to be feared, 
an evil spirit in some of her moods. 

“ You tried the same plan,” Arthur began 

“ But he had no partner to sharpen his wits,” she 
interrupted. Arthur bowed. 

“ That makes all the difference in the world,” he said 
sincerely. “ Let me hope that you will give your husband 
some hints in a case which I am going to give him.” 

He described the career of Sister Claire briefly, and 
expressed the wish to learn as much as possible of her 
earlier history. The Currans laughed. 

“ I had that job before,” said the detective. “ If the 
Jones case were only half a hundred times harder I might 
be happy. Her past is unknown except that she has been 
put out of many convents. I never looked up her birth- 
place or her relatives. Her name is Kate Kerrigan along 
with ten other names. She drinks a little, and just now 
holds a fine stake in New York . . . There’s the whole 
of it.” 

“ Hot much to build upon, if one wished to worry 
Claire, or other people.” 

“ Depend upon it,” Colette broke in, “ that Kate 


187 


Kerrigan has a pretty history behind her. I'll bet she was 
an actress once. I’ve seen her stage poses . . . then her 
name, catchy. . . and the way she rolls her eyes and 
looks at that congregation of elders, and deacons, and 
female saints, when she sets them shivering over the 
nastiness that’s coming.” 

Curran glanced at her with a look of inquiry. She sat 
on the window-sill like a bird, watching the street without, 
half listening to the men within. Arthur made a close 
study of the weird creature, sure that a strain of madness 
ran in her blood. Her looks and acts had the grace of a 
wild nature, which purrs, and kills, and purrs again. 
Quiet and dreamy this hour, in her dances she seemed 
half mad with vitality. 

“ Tell him what you learned about her,” said Curran, 
and then to Arthur, “ She can do a little work herself, 
and likes it.” 

“ To hunt a poor soul down, never ! ” she cried. “ But 
when a mean thing is hiding what every one has a right 
to know, I like to tear the truth out of her. . . like your 
case of Tom Jones. Sister Claire is downright mean. 
Maybe she can’t help it. But I know the nuns, and 
they’re God’s own children. She knows it too, but, just 
for the sake of money, she’s lying night and day against 
them, and against her own conscience. There’s a devil in 
her. I could do a thing like that for deviltry, and I could 
pull a load of money out of her backers, not for the money, 
but for deviltry too, to skin a miser like McMeeter, and a 
dandy like Bradford. And she’s just skinning them, to 
the last cent.” 

She took a fit of laughing, then, over the embarrassment 
of Sister Claire’s chief supporters. 

“ Here’s what I know about her,” she went on. “ The 
museum fakirs are worshiping her as a wonderful suc- 
cess. They seem to feel by instinct that she’s one of 
themselves, but a genius. They have a lot of fairy stories 
about her, but here’s the truth : Bishop Bradford and 
Erastus McMeeter are her backers. The Bishop plays 
high society for her, and the bawler looks after the mob. 
She gets fifty per cent, of everything, and they take all the 
risks. Her book, I know you read it, chock-full of lies, 
thrilling lies, for the brothers and the sisters who can’t 
read French novels in public — well, she owns the whole 


188 


thing and gets all the receipts except a beggar’s ten per 
cent., thrown to the publishers . . . and they’re the crack 
publishers of the town, the Hoppertons . . . but all the 
same they dassent let their names go on the title-page . . . 
they had that much shame ... so old Johnson, whom 
nobody knows, is printer and publisher. The book is 
selling like peanuts. There’s more than one way of selling 
your soul to the devil.” 

After this surprising remark, uttered without a smile, 
she looked out of the window sadly, while Curran chuckled 
with delight. 

“ It takes the woman to measure the woman,” he said. 
Arthur was delighted at this information. 

“ I wish you would learn some more about her, Mrs. 
Curran.” 

She mimicked the formal name in dumb show. 

*' Well, La Belle Colette, then,” he said laughing. 
She came over to him and sat on the arm of his chair, her 
beautiful eyes fixed on his with an expression well under- 
stood by both the men. 

“ You are going to hunt that dreadful creature down,” 
said she. “ I won’t help you. What do you know about 
her motives ? She may have good reason for playing the 
part . . . she may have suffered ? ” 

“ One must protect his own,” replied Arthur grimly. 

“ What are we all but wolves that eat one another ? — 
lambs by day, wolves in the night. We all play our 
part ” 

“ All the world’s a stage, of course ” 

“ Even you are playing a part,” with sudden violence. 
“ I have studied you, young man, since you came in. 
Lemme read your palm, and tell you.” 

She held his hand long, then tossed it aside with petu- 
lance, parted his hair and peered into his face, passed her 
hands lightly over his head for the prominences, dashed 
unexpected tears from her eyes, and then said with de- 
cision : 

“ There are two of yon in there,” tapping his chest. “ I 
can’t tell why, but I can read, or feel one man, and outside 
I see another.” 

“ Your instinct is correct,” said Arthur seriously. “ I 
have long been aware of the same fact, peculiar and pain- 
ful. But for a long time the outside man has had the 


189 

advantage. Now with regard to this Sister Claire, not to 

change the subject too suddenly ” 

Colette deserted his chair, and went to her husband. 
She had lost interest in the matter and would not open her 
lips again. The men discussed the search for Endicott, 
and the inquiry into the history of Sister Claire, while the 
dancer grew drowsy after the fashion of a child, her 
eyes became misty, her red lips pouted, her voice drawled 
faint and complaining music in whispers, and Curran 
looked often and long at her while he talked. Arthur 
went away debating with himself. His mind had developed 
the habit of reminiscence. Colette reminded him of a 
face, which he had seen . . . no, not a face but a voice . . . 
or was it a manner ? ... or was it her look, which seemed 
intimate, as of earlier acquaintance ? . . . what was it ? 
It eluded him however. He felt happy and satisfied, now 
that he had set Curran on the track of the unclean beast. 


190 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE ESCAPED HUH. 

Sister Claire sat in her office the next afternoon await- 
ing Louis as the gorged spider awaits the fly, with desire 
indeed, but without anxiety. Her office consisted of three 
rooms, opening into one another within, each connected 
by doors with the hall without. A solemn youth kept 
guard in the antechamber, a bilious lad whose feverish 
imagination enshrined Sister Claire and McMeeter on the 
same altar, and fed its fires on the promises of the worthy 
pair some day to send him on a mission as glorious as their 
own. The furnishings had the severe simplicity of the 
convent. The brilliant costume of the woman riveted the 
eye by the very dulness of her surroundings. At close 
view her beauty seemed more spiritual than in her public 
appearances. The heavy eyebrows were a blemish indeed, 
but like a beauty-spot emphasized the melting eyes and 
the peachy skin. 

The creamy habit of the nun and the white coif about 
her head left only her oval face and her lovely hands 
visible ; but what a revelation were these of loveliness 
and grace ! One glance at her tender face and the 
little hands would have scattered to the winds the slanders 
of Colette. Success had thrilled but not coarsened the 
escaped nun. As Grahame had surmised, she was now 
the hinge of Livingstone’s scheme. The success of her 
book and the popularity of her lectures, together with 
her discreet behavior, had given her immense influence 
with her supporters and with the leaders. Their money 
poured into her lap. She did not need it while her book 
sold and her lectures were crowded. 

The office saw come and go the most distinguished 
visitors. Even the English historian did not begin to com- 
pare with her in glory, and so far his lectures had not 
been well attended. Thinking of many things with deep 


191 


pride, she remembered that adversity had divided the 
leisure of her table with prosperity. Hence, she could not 
help wondering how long this fine success would last. 
Her peculiar fate demanded an end to it sometime. As 
if in answer to her question, the solemn youth in the 
antechamber knocked at her door, and announced with 
decorum Mr. Richard Curran. 

“ I have made the inquiries you wanted,” Curran said, 
as he took a chair at her bidding. “ Young Everard is a 
special pet of Dillon. This boy is the apple of his eye. 
And Everard, the father, is an ardent supporter of Liv- 
ingstone. I think you had better drop this affair, if you 
would escape a tangle — a nasty tangle.” 

“ If the boy is willing, where’s the tangle, Mr. Curran ? ” 
she answered placidly. 

“ Well, you know more about the thing than I can tell 
you,” he said, as if worried. “ You know them all. But 
I can’t help warning you against this Dillon. If you lay 
your hand on anything of his, I’m of opinion that this 
country will not be big enough for you and him at the 
same time.” 

“ I shall get him also, and that’ll put an end to his en- 
mity. He’s a fine fellow. He’s on my track, but you’ll 
see how enchantment will put him off it. Now, don’t 
grumble. I’ll be as tender and sweet with the boy as a 
siren. You will come in only when I feel that the spell 
doesn’t work. Rely on me to do the prudent thing.” 

That he did not rely on her his expression showed 
clearly. 

“ You have made a great hit in this city. Sister Claire,” 
he began 

“ And you think I am about to ruin my chances of a 
fortune ? ” she interrupted. “ Well, I am willing to take 
the risk, and you have nothing to say about it. You know 
your part. Go into the next room, and wait for your cue. 
I’ll bet any sum that you’ll never get the cue. If you do, 
be sure to make a quick entrance.” 

He looked long at her and sighed, but made no pretense 
to move. She rose, and pointed to the third room of the 
suite. Sheepishly, moodily , in silent protest, he obeyed the 
gesture and went out humbly. Before that look the brave 
detective surrendered like a slave to his chains. The door 
had hardly closed behind him, when the office-boy solemnly 


192 


announced Louis, and at a sign from Sister Claire ushered 
in the friend of Arthur Dillon. She received him with 
downcast eyes, standing at a little distance. With a whis- 
pered welcome and a drooping head, she pointed to a seat. 
Louis sat down nervous and overawed, wishing that he had 
never undertaken this impossible and depressing task. 
Who was he to be dealing with such a character as this 
dubious and disreputable woman ? 

“ I feared you would not come,” she began in a very low 
tone. “ I feared you would misunderstand . . . what can 
one like you understand of sin and misery ? . . . but 
thank Heaven for your courage ... I may yet owe to 
you my salvation ! ” 

“ I was afraid,” said the lad frankly, gladdened by her 
cunning words. “ I don't know of what . . . but I suppose 
^ If I can be of any service to 



“ Oh, you can, you can,” she murmured, turning her 
beautiful eyes on him. Her voice failed her, and she had 
to struggle with her sobs. 

“What do you think I can do for you ?” he asked, to 
relieve the suspense. 

“I shall tell you that later,” she replied, and almost 
burst out laughing. “ It will be simple and easy for you, 
but no one else can satisfy me. We are alone. I must tell 
you my story, that you may be the better able to under- 
stand the service which I shall ask of you. It is a short 
story, but terrible . . . especially to one like you . . . 
promise me that you will not shrink, that you will not 
despise me — — ” 

“ I have no right to despise you,” said Louis, catching 
his breath. 

She bowed her head to hide a smile, and appeared to be 
irresolute for a moment. Then with sudden, and even 
violent, resolve, she drew a chair to his side, and began 
the history of her wretched career. Her position was such, 
that to see her face he had to turn his head ; but her deli- 
cate hands rested on the arm of his chair, clasped now, 
and again twisted with anguish, and then stretched out 
with upward palms appealing for pity, or drooping in de- 
spair. She could see his profile, and watch the growing 
uneasiness, the shame of innocence brought face to face 
with dirt unspeakable, the mortal terror of a pure boy in 


193 


the presence of Phryne. With this sport Sister Claire had 
been long familiar. 

Her caressing voice and deep sorrow stripped the tale 
of half its vileness. At times her voice fell to a breath. 
Then she bent towards him humbly, and a perfume swept 
over him like a breeze from the tropics. The tale 
turned him to stone. Sister Claire undoubtedly drew 
upon her imagination and her reading for the facts, since 
it rarely falls to the lot of one woman to sound all the 
depths of depravity. Louis had little nonsense in his 
character. At first his horror urged him to fly from the 
place, but whenever the tale aroused this feeling in him, 
the cunning creature broke forth into a strain of penitence 
so sweet and touching that he had not the heart to desert 
her. At the last she fell upon her knees and buried her 
face in his lap, crying out : 

“ If you do not hate me now . . . after all this . . . 
then take pity on me.” 


Arthur sauntered into the hall outside the office of 
Sister Claire about half-past four. He had forgotten the 
momentous interview which bid so fair to end in the con- 
version of the escaped nun ; also his declaration to be 
within hailing distance in case of necessity. In a lucky 
moment, however, the thought of Sister Mary Magdalen and 
her rainbow enterprise, so foolish, so incredible, came to 
his mind, and sent him in haste to the rescue of his friend. 
Had Louis kept his engagement and received the vows and 
the confession of the audacious tool of Livingstone ? No 
sound came from the office. It would hardly do for him 
to make inquiry. 

He observed that Sister Claire’s office formed a suite 
of three rooms. The door of the first looked like the main 
entrance. It had the appearance of use, and within he 
heard the cough of the solemn office-boy. A faint mur- 
mur came from the second room. This must be the pri- 
vate sanctum of the spider ; this murmur might be the 
spider’s enchantment over the fly. What should the 
third room be ? The trap ? He turned the knob and 
entered swiftly and silently, much to the detective’s sur- 
prise and his own. 
i3 


194 


“ I had no idea that door was unlocked,” said Curran 
helplessly. 

“ Nor I. Who’s within ? My friend, young Everard ? ” 

“ Don’t know. She shoved me in here to wait until 
some visitor departed. Then we are to consider a propo- 
sition I made her,” said the calm detective. 

“ So you have made a beginning ? That’s good. Don’t 
stir. Perhaps it is as well that you are here. Let me dis- 
cover who is in here with the good sister.” 

“I can go to the first room, the front office, and in- 
quire,” said Curran. 

“ Never mind.” 

He could hear no words, only the low tones of the 
woman speaking ; until of a sudden the strong, manly 
voice of Louis, but subdued by emotion, husky and uncer- 
tain, rose in answer to her passionate outburst. 

“ He’s inside . . . my young man . . . hopes to convert 
her,” Arthur whispered to Curran, and they laughed to- 
gether in silence. “Now I have my own suspicion as to 
her motive in luring the hoy here. If he goes as he came, 
why I’m wrong perhaps. If there’s a rumpus, I may have 
her little feet in the right sort of a trap, and so save you 
labor, and the rest of us money. If anything happens, 
Curran, leave the situation to me. Pm anxious for a close 
acquaintance with Sister Claire.” 

Curran sat as comfortably, to the eye, as if in his own 
house entertaining his friend Dillon. The latter occasion- 
ally made the very natural reflection that this brave and 
skilful man lay in the trap of just such a creature as Sister 
Claire. Suddenly there came a burst of sound from the 
next room, exclamations, the hurrying of feet, the crash 
of a chair, and the trying of the doors. A frenzied hand 
shook the knob of the door at which Arthur was looking 
with a satisfied smile. 

“ Locked in ? ” he said to Curran, who nodded in a dazed 
way. 

Then some kind of a struggle began on the other side of 
that door. Arthur stood there like a cat ready to pounce 
on the foolish mouse, and the detective glared at him like 
a surly dog eager to rend him, but afraid. They could 
hear smothered calls for help in a woman’s voice. 

“ If she knew how near the cat is,” Arthur remarked 
patiently. 


195 


At last the key clicked in the lock, the door half 
opened, and as Arthur pushed it inwards Sister Claire 
flung herself away from it, and gasped feebly for help. 
She was hanging like a tiger to Louis, who in a gentle way 
tried to shake her hands and arms from his neck. The 
young fellow’s face bore the frightful look of a terrified 
child struggling for life against hopeless odds — mingled 
despair and pain. Arthur remained quietly in the en- 
trance, and the detective glared over his shoulder warn- 
ingly at Claire. At sight of the man who stood there, she 
would have shrieked in her horror and fright, but that 
sound died away in her throat. She loosened her grip, 
and stood staring a moment, then swiftly and meaningly 
began to arrange her disordered clothing. Louis made a 
dash for the door, seeing only a way of escape and not 
recognizing his friend. Arthur shook him. 

“ Ah, you will go converting before your time,” he said 
gay'y. 

“ Oh, Arthur, thank God ” the lad stammered. 

“ Seize him,” Claire began to shriek, very cautiously 
however. “ Hold him, gentlemen. Get the police. He 
is an emissary of the papists ” 

“ Let me go,” Louis cried in anguish. 

“ Steady all round,” Arthur answered with a laugh. 
“ Sister Claire, if you want the police raise your voice. 
One harlot more on the Island will not matter. Louis, 
get your nerve, man. Did I not tell you I would be in 
the hall ? Go home, and leave me to deal with this per- 
fect lady. Look after him,” he flung at Curran, and 
closed the door on them, quite happy at the result of 
Sister Magdalen’s scheme of conversion. 

He did not see the gesture from Curran which warned 
Sister Claire to make terms in a hurry with this danger- 
ous young man. The fury stood at the far end of the 
office, burning with rage and uncertainty. Having fallen 
into her own trap, she knew not what to do. The situ- 
ation had found its master. Arthur Dillon evidently took 
great pleasure in this climax of her making. He looked 
at her for a moment as one might at a wild animal of a 
new species. The room had been darkened so that one 
could not see distinctly. He knew that trick too. Her 
beauty improved upon acquaintance. For the second time 
her face reminded him that they had met before, and he 


196 


considered tlie point for an instant. What did it matter 
just then ? She had fallen into his hands, and must be 
disposed of. Pointing to a chair he sat down affably, his 
manner making his thought quite plain. She remained 
standing. 

u You may be very tired before our little talk is con- 
cluded ” 

“Am I to receive your insults as well as your agent’s ? ” 
she interrupted. 

“ Now, now, Sister Claire, this will never do. You 
have been acting ” . . .he looked at his watch . . . “ since 
four o’clock. The play is over. We are in real life again. 
Talk sense. Since Everard failed to convert you, and you 
to convert Everard, try the arts of Cleopatra on me. Or, 
let me convince you that you have made a blunder ” 

“1 do not wish to listen you,” she snapped. “ I will 
not be insulted a second time.” 

‘ ‘Who could insult the author of the Confessions ? 
You are beyond insult, Claire. I have read your book 
with the deepest interest. I have read you between every 
line, which cannot be said of most of your readers. I am 
not going to waste any words on you. I am going to give 
you an alternative, which will do duty until I find rope 
enough to hang you as high as Jack Sheppard. You know 
what you are, and so do I. The friends of this young man 
who fell so nicely into your claws will be anxious to keep 
his adventure with you very quiet.” 

A light leaped into her eyes. She had feared that out- 
side, in the hall, this man might have his hirelings ready 
to do her mischief, that some dreadful plot had come to a 
head which meant her ruin. Light began to dawn upon 
her. He laughed at her thoughts. 

“ One does not care to make public an adventure with 
such a woman as you,” said he affably. “ A young man 
like that too. It would be fatal for him. Therefore, you 
are to say nothing about it. You are not eager to talk 
about your failure . . . Cleopatra blushes for your failure 
. . . but a heedless tongue and a bitter feeling often get 
the better of sense. If you remain silent, so shall I.” 

“ Very generous,” she answered calmly, coming back to 
her natural coolness and audacity. “ As you have all to 
lose, and I have all to gain by a description of the trap set 
for me by your unclean emissary, your proposition won’t 


197 

go. I shall place the matter before my friends, and before 
the public, when I find it agreeable. ” 

“ When ! ” he mocked. “ You know by this time that 
you are playing a losing game, Claire. If you don’t know 
it, then you are not smart enough for the game. Apart 
from that, remember one thing : when you speak 1 shall 
whisper the truth to the excitable people whom your dirty 
book is harrying now.” 

“ I am not afraid of whispers, quite used to them in 
fact,” she drawled, as if mimicking him. 

“ I see you are not smart enough for the game,” and the 
remark startled her. “ You can see no possible results from 
that whisper. Did you ever hear of Jezebel and her fate ? 
Oh, you recall how the dogs worried her bones, do you ? 
So far your evil work has been confined to glittering gen- 
eralities. To-day you took a new tack. Now you must 
answer to me. Let it once become known that you tried 
to defile the innocent, to work harm to one of mine, and 
you may suffer the fate of the unclean things to which you 
belong by nature. The mob kills without delicacy. It 
will tear you as the dogs tore the painted Jezebel.” 

“ You are threatening me,” she stammered with a show 
of pride. 

“ No. That would be a waste of time. I am warning 
you. You have still the form of a woman, therefore I give 
you a chance. You are at the end of your rope. Stretch 
it further, and it may become the noose to hang you. You 
have defiled with your touch one whom I love. He kept 
his innocence, so I let it pass. But a rat like you must 
be destroyed. Very soon too. We are not going to stand 
your abominations, even if men like Livingstone and 
Bradford encourage you. I am giving you a chance. 
What do you say ? Have I your promise to be silent ? ” 

“ You have,” she replied brokenly. 

He looked at her surprised. The mask of her brazen 
audacity remained, but some feeling had overpowered her, 
and she began to weep like any woman in silent humili- 
ation. He left her without a word, knowing enough 
of her sex to respect this inexplicable grief, and to wait 
for a more favorable time to improve his acquaintance. 
“ Sonia’s mate,” he said to himself as he reached the 
street. The phrase never left him from that day, and 
became a prophecy of woe afterwards. He writhed as 


198 


he saw how nearly the honor and happiness of Louis 
had fallen into the hands of this wretch. Protected by the 
great, she could fling her dirt upon the clean, and go un- 
punished. Sonia's mate ! He had punished one creature 
of her kind, and with God's help he would yet lash the 
backs of Sister Claire and her supporters. 


199 


CHAPTER XXL 

AN ANXIOUS NIGHT. 

Curran caught up with him as he turned into Broad- 
way. He had waited to learn if Arthur had any instruc- 
tions, as he was now to return to Sister Claire’s office and 
explain as he might the astounding appearance of Dillon 
at a critical moment. 

“ She’s a ripe one,” Arthur said, smiling at thought of 
her collapse, but the next moment he frowned. €s She’s 
a devil, Curran, a handsome devil, and we must deal with 
her accordingly — stamp her out like a snake. Did you 
notice her ? ” 

“ No doubt she’s a bad one,” Curran answered thickly, 
but Arthur’s bitter words gave him a shiver, and he seemed 
to choke in his utterance. 

“ Make any explanation you like, Curran. She will 
accuse you of letting me in perhaps. It looks like a trap, 
doesn’t it ? By the way, what became of the boy ?” 

“ He seemed pretty well broken up,” the detective an- 
swered, “ and sent me off as soon as he learned that I had 
him in charge. I told him that you had the whole 
business nicely in hand, and not to worry. He muttered 
something about going home. Anyway, he would have no 
more of me, and he went off quite steady, but looking 
rather queer, I thought.” 

Arthur, with sudden anxiety, recalled that pitiful, hope- 
less look of the terrified child in Louis’ face. Perhaps he 
had been too dazed to understand how completely Arthur 
had rescued him in the nick of time. To the lad’s inex- 
perience this cheap attempt of Claire to overcome his 
innocence by a modified badger game might have the 
aspect of a tragedy. Moreover, he remained ignorant of 
the farce into which it had been turned. 

“ I am sorry you left him,” he said, thoughtfully weigh- 
ing the circumstances. “ This creature threatened him, 


200 


of course, with publicity, an attack on her honor by a 
papist emissary. He doesn’t know how little she would 
dare such a venture now. He may run away in his fright, 
thinking tliat his shame may be printed in the papers, and 
that the police may be watching for him. Public disgrace 
means ruin for him, for, as you know, he is studying to be 
a priest.” 

“ I didn’t know,” Curran answered stupidly, a greenish 
pallor spreading over his face. ‘ ‘ That kind of work won’t 
bring her much luck.” 

“It occurs to me now that he was too frightened to 
understand what my appearance meant, and what your 
words meant,” Arthur resumed. “ He may feel an added 
shame that we know about it. I must find him. Do you 
go at once to Sister Claire and settle your business with 
her. Then ride over to the Everards, and tell the lad, if 
he be there, that I wish to see him at once. If he has 
not yet got back, leave word with his mother . . . keep a 
straight face while you talk with her ... to send him over 
to me as soon as he gets home. And tell her that if I meet 
him before he does get home, that I shall keep him with 
me all night. Do you see the point ? If he has gone off 
in his fright, we have sixteen hours to find him. Ho one 
must know of his trouble, in that house at least, until he 
is safe. Do you think we can get on his trail right away, 
Curran ? ” 

“We must,” Curran said harshly, “ we must. Has he 
any money ? ” 

“ Hot enough to carry him far.” 

“ Then ten hours’ search ought to capture him.” 

“ Report then to me at my residence within an hour. 
1 have hopes that this search will not be needed, that you 
will find him at home. But be quicker than ever you 
were in your life, Curran. I’d go over to Cherry Street 
myself, but my inquiries would frighten the Everards. 
There must be no scandal.” 

Strange that he had not foreseen this possibility. For 
him the escapade with the escaped nun would have been 
a joke, and he had not thought how differently Louis must 
have regarded it. If the lad had really fled, and his 
friends must learn of it, Sister Claire’s share in the matter 
would have to remain a profound secret. With all their 
great love for this boy, his clan would rather have seen him 


201 


borne to the grave than living under the shadow of scan- 
dal in connection with this vicious woman. Her perfidy 
would add disgrace to grief, and deepen their woe beyond 
time’s power to heal. 

For with this people the prejudice against impurity 
was so nobly unreasonable that mere suspicion became 
equal to crime. This feeling intensified itself in regard 
to the priesthood. The innocence of Louis would not 
save him from lifelong reproach should his recent adven- 
ture finds its way into the sneering journals. Within 
the hour Curran, more anxious than Arthur himself, 
brought word that the lad had not yet reached home. 
His people were not worried, and promised to send him 
with speed to Arthur. 

“ Begin your search then,” said Arthur, “ and report 
here every hour. I have an idea he may have gone to 
see an aunt of his, and I’ll go there to find out. What is 
your plan ? ” 

“ He has no money, and he’ll want to go as far as he 
can, and where he won’t be easily got at. He’ll ship on 
an Indiaman. I’ll set a few men to look after the outgoing 
ships as a beginning.” 

“Secrecy above all things, understand,” was the last 
admonition. 

Darkness had come on, and the clocks struck the hour 
of seven as Arthur set out for a visit to Sister Mary Mag- 
dalen. Possibly Louis had sought her to tell the story of 
failure and shame, the sad result of her foolish enterprise ; 
and she had kept him to console him, to put him in shape 
before his return home, so that none might mark the 
traces of his frightful emotion. Alas, the good nun had 
not seen him since their visit to Claire’s office in Bleecker 
Street the day before. He concealed from her the situa- 
tion. 

“ How in the name of Heaven,” said he, “ did you con- 
ceive this scheme of converting this woman ? ” 

“ She has a soul to be saved, and it’s quite saveable,” 
answered the nun tartly. “The more hopeless from 
man’s view, the more likely from God’s. I have a taste 
for hopeless enterprises.” 

“ I wish you had left Louis out of this one,” Arthur 
thought. “ But to deal with a wretch like her, so noto- 
rious, so fallen,” he said aloud, “ you must have risked 


202 


too much. Suppose, after you had entered her office, she 
had sent for a reporter to see you there, to see you leaving 
after kissing her, to hear a pretty story of an embassy from 
the archbishop to coax her back to religion ; and the next 
morning a long account of this attempt on her resolution 
should appear in the papers ? What would your superiors 
say ? ” 

“ That could happen,” she admitted with a shiver, “ but 
I had her word that my visit was to be kept a secret.” 

“ Her word ! ” and he raised his hands. 

“ Oh, I assure you the affair was arranged beforehand 
to the smallest detail,” she declared. “ Of course no one 
can trust a woman like that absolutely. But, as you see, 
in this case everything went off smoothly.” 

“ I see indeed,” said Arthur too worried to smile. 

“ I arranged the meeting through Miss Conyngham,” 
the nun continued, “ a very clever person for such work. 
I knew the danger of the enterprise, but the woman has 
a soul, and I thought if some one had the courage to take 
her by the hand and lead her out of her wicked life, she 
might do penance, and even become a saint. She received 
Miss Conyngham quite nicely indeed ; and also my mes- 
sage that a helping hand was ready for her at any moment. 
She was afraid too of a trap ; but at the last she begged 
to see me, and I went, with the consent of my superior.” 

“ And how T did you come to mix Louis up in the thing ? ” 

“ He happened to drop in as I was going, and I took him 
along. He was very much edified, we all were.” 

“ And he has been more edified since,” observed Arthur, 
but the good nun missed the sarcasm. 

“She made open confession before the three of us,” 
warming up at the memory of that scene. “ With tears 
in her eyes she described her fall, her present remorse, 
her despair of the future, and her hope in us. Most re- 
markable scene I ever witnessed. I arranged for her to 
call at this convent whenever she could to plan for her 
return. She may be here any time. Oh, yes, I forgot. 
The most touching moment of all came at the last. When 
we were leaving she took Louis’ hand, pressed it to her 
heart, kissed it with respect, and cried out : f You happy 
soul, oh, keep the grace of Godin your heart, hold to your 
high vocation through any torment : to lose it, to destroy 
it, as I destroyed mine, is to open wide the soul to devils.’ 


203 


Wasn’t that beautiful now ? Then she asked him in the 
name of God to call on her the next day, and he promised. 
He may be here to-night to tell me about it.” 

“ You say three. Was Edith Conyngham the third ?” 

“ Oh, no, only a sister of our community.” 

He burst out laughing at the thought of the fox acting 
so cleverly before the three geese. Claire must have 
laughed herself into a fit when they had gone. He had 
now to put the Sister on her guard at the expense of her 
self-esteem. He tried to do so gently and considerately, 
fearing hysterics. 

“ You put the boy in the grasp of the devil, I fear,” 
he said. “ Convert Sister Claire ! You would better have 
turned your prayers on Satan ! She got him alone this 
afternoon in her office, as you permitted, and made him a 
proposition, which she had in her mind from the minute 
she first saw him. I arrived in time to give her a shock, 
and to rescue him. Now we are looking for him to tell 
him he need not fear Sister Claire’s threats to publish how 
he made an attack upon her virtue.” 

“ I do not quite understand,” gasped Sister Magdalen 
stupefied. What Arthur thought considerate others might 
have named differently. Exasperation at the downright 
folly of the scheme, and its threatened results, may have 
actuated him. His explanation satisfied the nun, and her 
fine nerve resisted hysterics and tears. 

“It is horrible,” she said at the last word. “But we 
acted honestly, and God will not desert us. You will find 
Louis before morning, and I shall spend the night in 
prayer until you have found him ... for him and you . . . 
and for that poor wretch, that dreadful woman, more to 
be pitied than any one.” 

Her confidence did not encourage him. Hour by hour 
the messengers of Curran appeared with the one hopeless 
phrase : no news. He walked about the park until mid- 
night, and then posted himself in the basement with cigar 
and journal to while away the long hours. Sinister 
thoughts troubled him, and painful fancies. He could 
see the poor lad hiding in the slums, or at the mercy of 
wretches as vile as Claire ; wandering about the city, per- 
haps, in anguish over his ruined life, horrified at what his 
friends must read in the morning papers, planning help- 
lessly to escape from a danger which did not exist, except 


m 


in his own mind. Oh, no doubt Curran would find him ! 
Why, he must find him ! 

Across the sea in London, Minister Livingstone slept, 
full fed with the flatteries of a day, dreaming of the pleas- 
ures and honors sure to come with the morning. Down 
in the prison town lived Honora, with her eyes dulled from 
watching the jail and her heart sore with longing. For 
Owen the prison, for Louis the pavement, for Honora and 
himself the sleepless hours of the aching heart ; but for 
the responsible Minister and his responsible tool sweet 
sleep, gilded comfort, overwhelming honors. Such things 
could be only because men of his sort were craven idiots. 
What a wretched twist in all things human ! Why not, 
if nothing else could be done, go and set fire to Claire's 
office, the bishop's house, and the Livingstone mansion ? 

However, joy came at the end of the night, for the 
messenger brought word that the lad had been found, 
sound as a bell, having just shipped as a common sailor on 
an Indiaman. Since Curran could not persuade him to 
leave his ship, the detective had remained on the vessel to 
await Arthur’s arrival. A cab took him down to the 
wharf, and a man led him along the dock to the gang-plank, 
thence across the deck to a space near the forecastle, 
where Curran sat with Louis in the starlight. 

“Then it’s all true . . . what he has been telling me ?” 
Louis cried as he leaped to his feet and took the hearty 
grasp of his friend. 

“As true as gospel,” said Arthur, using Judy’s phrase. 
“ Let’s get out of this without delay. We can talk about 
it at home. Curran, do you settle with the captain.” 

They hurried away to the cab in silence. Before en- 
tering Arthur wrung the hand of the detective warmly. 

“It would take more than I own to pay you for this 
night’s work, Curran. I want you to know how I feel 
about it, and when the time comes ask your own reward.” 

“ What you have just said is half of it,” the man an- 
swered in a strange tone. “ When the time comes I shall 
not be bashful.” 

“It would have been the greatest blunder of your 
life,” Arthur said, as they drove homeward, “ if you had 
succeeded in getting away. It cannot be denied, Louis, 
that from five o’clock this afternoon till now you made a 
fool of yourself. Don’t reply. Don’t worry about it. 


205 


Jnst think of this gold-plate fact : no one knows anything 
about it. You are supposed to be sleeping sweetly at my 
house. I settled Claire beautifully. And Sister Mag- 
dalen, too. By the way, I must send her word by the 
cabby . . . better let her do penance ou her knees till sunrise 
. . . she’s praying for you . . . but the suspense might kill 
her . . . no. I’ll send word. As I was saying, everything 
is as it was at four o’clock this afternoon.” 

He chattered for the lad’s benefit, noting that at times 
Louis shivered as with ague, and that his bauds were cold. 
He has tasted calamity, Arthur thought with resignation, 
and life will never be quite the same thing again. In the 
comfortable room the marks of suffering became painfully 
evident. Even joy failed to rouse his old self. Pale, 
wrinkled like age, shrunken, almost lean, he presented a 
woful spectacle. Arthur mixed a warm punch for him, 
and spread a substantial luncb. 

“ The sauce for this feast,” said he, “ is not appetite, 
but this fact : that your troubles are over. Now eat.” 

Louis made a pretence of eating, and later, under the 
influence of the punch, found a little appetite. By degrees 
his mind became clearer as his body rested, the wrinkles 
began to disappear, his body seemed to fill out while the 
comfort of the situation invaded him. Arthur, puffing his 
cigar and describing his interview with Claire, looked so 
stanch and solid, so sure of himself, so at ease with his 
neighbors, that one could scarcely fail to catch his happy 
complaint. 

“ She has begun herdescent into hell,” hesaid placidly, 
“but since you are with us still, I shall give her plenty of 
time to make it. What I am surprised at is that you did 
not understand what my entrance meant. She understood 
it. She thought Curran was due as her witness of the as- 
sault. What surprises me still more is that you so com- 
pletely forgot my advice : no matter what the trouble and 
the shame, come straight to me. Here was a grand chance 
to try it.” 

“ I never thought of this kind of trouble,” said Louis 
dully. “ Anyway, I got such a fright that I understood 
nothing rightly up to midnight. The terrible feeling of 
public disgrace eat into me. I saw and heard people cry- 
ing over me as at a funeral, you know that hopeless crying. 
The road ahead looked to be full of black clouds. I wanted 


206 


to die. Then I wanted to get away. When I found a ship 
they took me for a half-drunk sailor, and hustled me into 
the forecastle in lively shape. When Curran found me 
and hauled me out of the bunk, I had been asleep enjoying 
the awfnllest dreams. I took him for a trickster, who 
wanted to get me ashore and jail me. I feel better. I 
think T can sleep now.” 

“ Experience maybe has given you a better grip on the 
meaning of that wise advice which I repeat now : no mat- 
ter what the trouble, come to me.” 

“ I shall come,” said the lad with a show of spirit that 
delighted Arthur. “ Even if you should see me hanged 
the next day.” 

“ That’s a fine sentiment to sleep on, so we’ll go to bed. 
However, remind yourself that a little good sense when you 
resume business. . . by the way, it’s morning ... no super- 
sensitiveness, no grieving, for you were straight all through 
. . . go right on as if nothing had happened . . . and in fact 
nothing has happened yet ... I can see that you under- 
stand.” 

They went to bed, and slept comfortably until noon. 
After breakfast Louis looked passably well, yet miserable 
enough to make explanations necessary for his alarmed 
parents. Arthur undertook the disagreeable office, which 
seemed to him delightful by comparison with that other 
story of a runaway son en route in fancied disgrace for 
India. All’s well that ends well. Mary Everard wept 
with grief, joy, and gratitude, and took her jewel to her 
arms without complaint or question. The crotchety father 
was disposed to have it out with either the knaves or the 
fools in the game, did not Arthur reduce him to quiet by 
his little indictment. 

“ There is only one to quarrel with about this sad affair, 
John Everard,” said he smoothly, “ and that only one is 
your friend and well wisher, Quincy Livingstone. I want 
you to remember that, when we set out to take his scalp. 
It’s a judgment on you that you are the first to suffer 
directly by this man’s plotting. You needn’t talk back. 
The boy is going to be ill, and you’ll need all your epithets 
for your chief and yourself before you see comfort again.” 

Recalling his son’s appearance the father remained silent. 
Arthur’s prevision came true. The physician ordered 
Louis to bed for an indefinite time, having found him suf- 


207 


fering from shock, and threatened with some form of fever. 
The danger did not daunt his mother. Whatever of suf- 
fering yet remained, her boy would endure it in the shelter 
of her arms. 

<( If he died this night,” she said to Arthur, “ I would 
still thank God that sent him back to die among his own ; 
and after God, you, son dear, who have been more than a 
brother to him.” 

Thus the items in his account with kinsman Livingstone 
kept mounting daily. 


208 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE END OF A MELODRAMA. 

Louis kept liis bed for some weeks, and suffered a slow 
convalescence. Private grief must give way to public 
necessity. In this case the private grief developed a public 
necessity. Arthur took pains to tell bis story to the 
leaders. It gave point to the general onslaught now being 
made on the Irish by the hired journals, the escaped nun, 
and, as some named him, the escaped historian. A plan 
was formulated to deal with all three. Grahame entered 
the lists against Bitterkin and Smallish, Vandervelt de- 
nounced the Confessions and its author at a banquet vis-a- 
vis with Bradford, and Monsignor pursued the escaped his- 
torian by lecturing in the same cities, and often on the same 
platform. Arthur held to Sister Claire as his specialty, as 
the hinge of the Livingstone scheme, a very rotten hinge 
on which to depend. Nevertheless, she kept her footing 
for months after her interview with him. 

Curran had laid bare her life and exposed her present 
methods nicely ; but neither afforded a grip which might 
shake her, except inasmuch as it gave him an unexpected 
clue to the Claire labyrinth. Her history showed that 
she had often played two parts in the same drama. With- 
out doubt a similar trick served her now, not only to in- 
dulge her riotous passions, but to glean advantages from 
her enemies and useful criticism from her friends. He 
cast about among his casual acquaintance for characters 
that Claire might play. Edith Conyngham ? Not im- 
possible ! The Brand who held forth at the gospel hall ? 
Here was a find indeed ! Comparing the impressions left 
upon him by these women, as a result he gave Curran the 
commission to watch and study the daily living of Edith 
Conyngham. Even this man’s nerve shook at a stroke so 
luckily apt. 


209 


“ I don’t know much about the ways of escaped nuns,” 
said Arthur, “ but I am going to study them. I’ll wager 
you find Claire behind the rusty garments of this obscure, 
muddy, slimy little woman. They have the same appetite 
anyway.” 

This choice bit of news, carried at once to the escaped 
nun, sounded in Sister Claire’s ear like the crack of doom, 
and she stared at Curran, standing humbly in her office, 
with distorted face. 

“Is this the result of your clever story-telling, Dick 
Curran ?” she gasped. 

“It’s the result of your affair with young Everard,” he 
replied sadly. ( ‘ That was a mistake altogether. It waked 
up Arthur Dillon.” 

“ The mistake was to wake that man,” she said sourly. 
“ I fear him. There’s something hiding in him, some- 
thing terrible, that looks out of his eyes like a ghost in 
liell. The dogs . . . Jezebel . . . that was his threat . . . 
ugh ! ” 

“ He has waked up the whole crow'd against you and 
frightened your friends. If ever he tells the Clan-na-Gael 
about young Everard, your life w r on’t be worth a pin.” 

“ With you to defend me ? ” ironically. 

“ I could only die with you . . . against that crowd.” 

“And you would,” she said with conviction, tears in 
her eyes. “My one friend.” 

His cheeks flushed and his eyes sparkled at the fervent 
praise of his fidelity. 

“Well, it’s all up with me,” changing to a mood of gaiety. 
“ The Escaped Nun must escape once more. They will 
all turn their coldest shoulders to me, absolutely frightened 
by this Irish crowd, to which we belong after all, Dick. I’m 
not sorry they can stand up for themselves, are you ? So, 
there’s nothing to do but take up the play, and begin 
work on it in dead earnest.” 

“It’s a bad time,” Curran ventured, as she took a man- 
uscript from a desk. “ But you know how to manage such 
things, you are so clever,” he hastened to add, catching a 
fiery glance from her eye. “ Only you must go with 
caution.” 

“It’s a fine play,” she said, turning the pages of the 
manuscript. “Dick, you are little short of a genius. If 
I had not liked the real play so well, playing to the big 
i4 


210 


world this r61e of escaped nun, I would have taken it up 
long ago. The little stage of the theater is nothing to 
the grand stage of the world, where a whole nation ap- 
plauds ; and men like the Bishop take it for the real 
thing, this impersonation of mine. But since I am 
shut out . . . and my curse on this Arthur Dillon . . . 
no, no, I take that back . . . he’s a fine fellow, working 
according to his nature . . . since he will shut me out I 
must take to the imitation stage. Ah, but the part is fine ! 
First act: the convent garden, the novice reading her 
love in the flowers, the hateful old mother superior choking 
her to get her lover’s note from her, the reading of the 
note, and the dragging of the novice to her prison cell, 
down in the depths of the earth. How that will draw the 
tears from the old maids of Methodism all over the 
country ! ” 

She burst into hearty laughter. 

“ Second act : the dungeon, the tortures, old superior 
again, and the hateful hag who is in love with the hero 
and would like to wreak her jealousy on me, poor thing, 
all tears and determination. I loathe the two women. I 
denounce the creed which invents such tortures. I lie 
down to die in the dungeon while the music moans and 
the deacons and their families in the audience groan. 
Don’t you think, Dicky dear, I can do the dying act to 
perfection ? ” 

“ On the stage perfectly.” 

“ You’re a wretch,” she shrieked with sudden rage. 
“ You hint at the night I took a colic and howled for the 
priest, when you know it was only the whisky and the de- 
lirium. How dare you ! ” 

“ It slipped on me,” he said humbly. 

te The third act is simply beautiful : chapel of the con- 
vent, a fat priest at the altar, all the nuns gathered about 
to hear the charges against me, I am brought in bound, 
pale, starved, but determined ; the trial, the sentence, 
the curse . . . oh, that scene is sublime, I can see Booth in 
it . . . pity we can’t have him . . . then the inrush of my 
lover, the terror, the shrieks, the confusion, as I am carried 
off the stage with the curtain going down. At last the se- 
rene fourth act : another garden, the villains all punished, 
my lover’s arms about me, and we two reading the flowers 
as the curtain descends. Well,” with a sigh of pleasure, 


211 


“ if that doesn’t take among the Methodists and the gen- 
eral public out West and down South, what will ?” 

“ I can see the fire with which you will act it,” said 
Curran eagerly. “ You are a born actress. Who but 
you could play so many parts at once ? ” 

“ And yet,” she answered dreamily, giving an expressive 
kick with unconscious grace, “ this is what I like best. 
If it could be introduced into the last act . . . but of course 
the audiences wouldn’t tolerate it, dancing. Well,” wak- 
ing up suddenly to business, “ are you all ready for the 
grand coup— press, manager, all details ?” 

“ Ready long ago.” 

“ Here then is the program, Dicky dear. To-mor- 
row I seek the seclusion of the convent at Park Square — 
isn’t seclusion good ? To-night letters go out to all my 
friends, warning them of my utter loneliness, and dread 
of impending abduction. In two or three days you get a 
notice in the papers about these letters, and secure inter- 
views with the Bishop if possible, with McMeeter anyway 
. . . oh, he’ll begin to howl as soon as he gets his letter. 
Whenever you think the public interest, or excitement, is 
at its height, then you bring your little ladder to the convent, 
and wait outside for a racket which will wake the neighbor- 
hood. In the midst of it, as the people are gathering, up 
with the ladder, and down with me in your triumphant 
arms. Pity we can’t have a calcium light for that scene. 
If there should be any failure ... of course there can’t 
be . . . then a note of warning will reach me, with any 
instructions you may wish to give me . . . to the old 
address of course.” 

Both laughed heartily at this allusion. 

“ It has been great fun,” she said, “ fooling them all right 
and left. That Dillon is suspicious though . . . fine fel- 
low ... I like him. Dicky , . . . you’re not jealous. What 
a wonder you are, dear old faithful Dicky, my playwright, 
manager, lover, detective, everything to me. Well, run 
along to your work. We strike for fortune this time — for 
fortune and for fame. You will not see me again until 
you carry me down the ladder from the convent window. 
What a lark ! And there’s money in it for you and me.” 

He dared not discourage her, being too completely her 
slave, like wax in her hands ; and he believed, too, that 
her scheme of advertising the drama of The Escaped Nun 


212 


would lead to splendid and profitable notoriety. A real 
escape, from a city convent, before the very eyes of re- 
spectable citizens, would ring through the country like an 
alarm, and set the entire Protestant community in motion. 
While he feared, he was also dazzled by the brilliancy of 
the scheme. 

It began very well. The journals one morning an- 
nounced the disappearance of Sister Claire, and described 
the alarm of her friends at her failure to return. There- 
upon McMeeter raised his wonderful voice over the letter 
sent him on the eve of her flight, and printed the pathetic 
epistle along with his denunciation of the cowardice which 
had given her over to her enemies. Later Bishop Brad- 
ford, expressing his sympathy in a speech to the Dorcas’ 
Society, referred to the walling up of escaped nuns during 
the dark ages. A little tide of paragraphs flowed from 
the papers, plaintively murmuring the one sad strain : the 
dear sister could not be far distant ; she might be in the 
city, deep in a convent dungeon ; she had belonged to 
the community of the Good Shepherd, whose convent 
stood in Morris Street, large enough, sufficiently barred 
with iron to suggest dungeons ; the escaped one had often 
expressed her dread of abduction ; the convents ought to be 
examined suddenly and secretly ; and so on without end. 

“ What is the meaning of it?” said Monsignor. “ I 
thought you had extinguished her, Arthur.” 

“ Another scheme of course. I was too merciful with 
her, I imagine. All this noise seems to have one aim : to 
direct attention to these convents. Now if she were hid- 
den in any of them, and a committee should visit that 
convent and find her forcibly detained, as she would call 
it ; or if she could sound a fire alarm and make a spec- 
tacular escape at two in the morning, before the whole 
world, what could be said about it ?” 

“ Isn’t it rather late in history for such things ? ” said 
Monsignor. 

“ A good trick is as good to-day as a thousand years 
ago. I can picture you explaining to the American citi- 
zen, amid the howls of McMeeter and the purring speeches 
of the Bishop, how Sister Claire came to be in the con- 
vent from which her friends rescued her.” 

“ It would be awkward enough I admit. You think, 
then, that she . . . but what could be her motive ? ” 


213 


“ Notoriety, and the sympathy of the people. I would 
like to trip her up in this scheme, and hurl her once for 
all into the hell which she seems anxious to prepare for 
other people. You Catholics are altogether too easy with 
the Claires and the McMeeters. Hence the tears of the 
Everards.” 

“We are so used to it,” said the priest in apology. 
“ It would be foolish, however, not to heed your warning. 
Go to the convents of the city from me, and put them on 
their guard. Let them dismiss all strangers and keep 
out newcomers until the danger appears to be over.” 

The most careful search failed to reveal a trace of 
Sister Claire’s hiding-place among the various communities, 
who were thrown into a fever of dread by the warning. 
The journals kept up their crescendo of inquiry and in- 
formation. One must look for that snake, Arthur thought, 
not with the eyes, but through inspiration. She hid 
neither in the clouds nor in Arizona, but in the grass at 
their feet. Seeking for inspiration, he went over the 
ground a second time with Sister Magdalen, who had lost 
flesh over the shame of her dealings with Claire, the 
Everard troubles, and the dread of what was still to come. 
She burned to atone for her holy indiscretions. The Park 
Square convent, however, held no strangers. In the home 
attached to it were many poor women, but all of them 
known. Edith Conyngham the obscure, the mute, the 
humble, was just then occupying a room in the place, 
making a retreat of ten days in charge of Sister Magdalen. 
At this fact Arthur was seized by his inspiration. 

“ She must give up her retreat and leave the place,” he 
said quietly, though bis pulse was bounding. “ Make no 
objection. It’s only a case of being too careful. Leave 
the whole matter to me. Say nothing to her about it. 
To-night the good creature will have slipped away with- 
out noise, and she can finish her retreat later. It’s ab- 
surd, but better be absurd than sorry.” 

And Sister Magdalen, thinking of the long penance 
she must undergo for her folly, made only a polite ob- 
jection. He wrote out a note at once in a disguised 
hand, giving it no signature : 


“ The game is up. You cannot get out of the convent too quick 
or too soon. At ten o’clock a cab will be at the southwest cor* 


214 


ner of Park Square. Take it and drive to the office. Before 
ten I shall be with you. Don’t delay an instant. State prison is 
in sight. Dillon is on your track.” 

“ At eight o’clock this evening where will Miss Con- 
yngham be, Sister ? ” 

“ In her room,” said the nun, unhappy over the treat- 
ment intended for her client, “ preparing her meditation 
for the morning. She has a great love for meditation on 
the profound mysteries of religion.” 

“ Glad to know it,” he said dryly. “ Well, slip this 
note under her door, make no noise, let no one see you, 
give her no hint of your presence. Then go to bed and 
pray for us poor sinners out in the wicked world.” 

One must do a crazy thing now and then, under cover 
of the proprieties, if only to test one’s sanity. Edith and 
Claire, as he had suggested to Curran, might be the same 
person. What if Claire appeared tall, portly, resonant, 
youthful, abounding in life, while Edith seemed mute, 
old, thin, feeble ? The art of the actor can work miracles 
in personal appearance. A dual life provided perfect se- 
curity in carrying out Claire’s plans, and it matched the 
daring of the Escaped Nun to live as Edith in the very 
hearts of the people she sought to destroy. Good sense 
opposed his theory of course, but he made out a satis- 
factory argument for himself. How often had Sister 
Claire puzzled him by her resemblance to some one whom 
he could not force out of the shadows of memory ! Even 
now, with the key of the mystery in his hands," he could 
see no likeness between them. Yet no doubt remained in 
his mind that a dual life would explain and expose Sister 
Claire. 

That night he sat on the seat of a cab in proper 
costume, at the southwest corner of Park Square. The 
convent, diagonally opposite, was dark and silent at nine 
o’clock ; and far in the rear, facing the side street, stood 
the home of the indigent, whose door would open for the 
exit of a clever actress at ten o’clock, or, well closed, re- 
proach him for his stupidity. The great front of the con- 
vent, dominating the Square, would have been a fine 
stage for the scene contemplated by Sister Claire, and he 
laughed at the spectacle of the escaped one leaping from 
a window into her lover’s arms, or sliding down a rope 
amid the cheers of the mob and the shrieks of the dis- 


215 


graced poor souls within. Then he gritted his teeth at 
the thought of Louis, and Mary his mother, and Mona his 
sister. His breath came short. Claire was a woman, 
but some women are not dishonored by the fate of 
Jezebel. 

Shortly after ten o’clock a small, well-wrapped figure 
turned the remote corner of the Home, came out to the 
Square, saw the cab, and coming forward with confidence 
opened the door and stepped in. As Arthur drove off the 
blood surged to his head and his heart in a way that made 
his ears sing. It seemed impossible that the absurd should 
turn out wisdom at the first jump. As he drove along he 
wondered over the capacities of art. Ho two individuals 
could have been more unlike in essentials than Edith 
Conyngham and Sister Claire. How it would appear that 
high-heeled shoes, padded clothes, heavy eyebrows, paint, 
a loud and confident voice, a bold manner, and her beau- 
tiful costume had made Sister Claire ; while shoes without 
heels, rusty clothes, a gray wig, a weak voice, and timid 
manner, had given form to Edith Conyngham. 

A soul is betrayed by its sins. The common feature of the 
two characters was the sensuality which, neither in the 
nun nor in her double, would be repressed or disguised. 
Looking back, Arthur could see some points of resem- 
blance which might have betrayed the wretch to a clever 
detective. Well, he would settle all accounts with her 
presently, and he debated only one point, the flinging of 
her to the dogs. In twenty minutes they reached the 
office of the Escaped Hun. He opened the door of the 
cab and she stepped out nervously, but walked with deci- 
sion into the building, for which she had the keys. 

“Anything more, mum ?” he said respectfully. 

“ Come right in, and light up for me,” she said ungra- 
ciously, in a towering rage. He found his way to the gas 
jets and flooded the office with the light from four. She 
pulled down the curtains, and flung aside her rusty shawl. 
At the same moment he flung an arm about her, and with 
his free hand tore the gray wig from her head, and shook 
free the mass of yellow hair which lay beneath it. Then 
he flung her limp into the nearest chair, and stood gazing 
at her, frozen with amaze. She cowered, pale with the 
sudden fright of the attack. It was not Sister Claire who 
stood revealed, but the charming and lovely La Belle 


216 


Colette. The next instant he laughed like a hysterical 
woman. 

“ By heavens, but that ivas an inspiration ! ” he ex- 
claimed. “ Don’t be frightened, beautiful Colette. I was 
prepared for a tragedy, but this discovery reveals a farce.” 

Her terror gave way to stupefaction when she recognized 
him. 

“ So it’s three instead of two,” he went on. “ The 
lovely dancer is also the Escaped Nun and the late Edith 
Conyngham. And Curran knew it of course, who was our 
detective. That’s bad. But Judy Haskell claims you as 
a goddaughter. You are Curran’s wife. You are Sister 
Magdalen’s poor friend. You are Katharine Kerrigan. 
You are Sister Claire. You are Messalina. La Belle 
Colette, you are the very devil.” 

She recovered from her fright at his laugh, in which 
some amusement tinkled, and also something terrible. 
They were in a lonely place, he had made the situation, 
and she felt miserably helpless. 

“ You need not blame Curran,” she said decisively. 
“ He knew the game, but he has no control over me. I 
want to go home, and I want to know right away your 
terms. It’s all up with me. I confess. But let me know 
what you are going to do with me.” 

“Take you home to your husband,” said Arthur. 
“Come.” 

They drove to the little apartment where Curran lay 
peacefully sleeping, and where he received his erratic wife 
with stupor. The three sat down in the parlor to discuss 
the situation, which was serious enough, though Arthur 
now professed to take it lightly. Colette stared at him 
like a fascinated bird and answered his questions humbly. 

“It’s all very simple,” said she. “I am truly Edith 
Conyngham, and Judy Haskell is my godmother, and I 
was in a convent out West. I was expelled for a love 
caper, and came back to my friends much older in appear- 
ance than I had need to be. The Escaped-Nun-racket was 
a money-maker. What I really am, you see. I am the 
dancer, La Belle Colette. All the rest is disguise.” 

Curran asked no questions and accepted the situation 
composedly. 

“ She is in your hands,” he said. 

“ I place her in yours for the present,” Arthur replied. 


217 


glowering as he thought of Louis. “Detectives will 
shadow you both until I come to a decision what to do 
with you. Any move to escape and you will be nipped. 
Then the law takes its course. As for you, La Belle 
Colette, say your prayers. I am still tempted to send you 
after Jezebel. ” 

“You are a terrible man,” she whimpered, as he walked 
out and left them to their sins. 


218 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE FIRST BLOW. 

Mayor Birmingham and Grahame, summoned by mes- 
sengers, met him in the forever-deserted offices of Sister 
Claire. He made ready for them by turning on all the 
lights, setting forth a cheerful bottle and some soda from 
Claire’s hidden ice-box, and lighting a cigar. Delight ran 
through his blood like fire. At last he had his man on 
the hip, and the vision of that toss which he meant to give 
him made his body tingle from the roots of his hair to the 
points of his toes. However, the case was not for him to 
deal with alone. Birmingham, the man of weight, pru- 
dence, fairness, the true leader, really owned the situation. 
Grahame, experienced journalist, had the right to manage 
the publicity department of this delicious scandal. His 
own task would be to hold Claire in the traces, and drive 
her round the track, show the world her paces, past the 
judge’s stand. Ah, to see the face of the Minister as he 
read the story of exposure — her exposure and his own 
shame ! 

The two men stared at his comfortable attitude in that 
strange inn, and fairly gasped at the climax of his story. 

“ The devil’s in you. No one but you would have 
thought out such a scheme,” said Grahame, recalling the 
audacity, the cleverness, the surprises of his friend’s career 
from the California episode to the invasion of Ireland. 
“ Great heavens ! but you have the knack of seizing the 
hinge of things.” 

“ I think we have Livingstone and his enterprise in the 
proper sort of hole,” Arthur answered. “ The question 
is how to use our advantage ? ” 

The young men turned to Birmingham with deference. 

“The most thorough way,” said the Mayor, after com- 
plimenting Arthur on his astonishing success, “ would be to 
hale Claire before the courts for fraud, and subpoena all 


219 

our distinguished enemies. That course has some dis- 
agreeable consequences, however.” 

“ I think we had better keep out of court,” Arthur said 
quickly. 

His companions looked surprised at his hesitation. He 
did not understand it himself. For Edith Conyngham he 
felt only disgust, and for Sister Claire an amused con- 
tempt ; but sparkling Colette, so clever, bright, and 
amiable, so charmingly conscienceless, so gracefully 
wicked, inspired him with pity almost. He could not 
crush the pretty reptile, or thrust her into prison. 

“ Of course I want publicity,” he hastened to add, “the 
very widest, to reach as far as London, and strike the 
Minister. How can that be got, and keep away from the 
courts ? ” 

“ An investigating committee is what you are thinking 
of,” said the Mayor. “ I can call such a body together at 
the Fifth Avenue Hotel, our most distinguished citizens. 
They could receive the confession of this woman, and re- 
port to the public on her character.” 

“ That’s the plan,” Arthur interrupted with joy. 
“ That must be carried out. I’ll see that Claire appears 
before that committee and confesses her frauds. But mark 
this : on that committee you should have the agents of 
Livingstone : Bradford, Bitterkin ... I owe him one 
for his meanness to the Senator . . . Smallish in par- 
ticular. and McMeeter for the fun of the thing.” 

“ Wild horses wouldn’t drag them to it,” Grahame 
thought. 

“ I have something better than wild horses, the proofs 
of their conspiracy, of their league with this woman,” and 
Arthur pointed to the locked drawers of the office. “ How 
will our minister to England like to have his name con- 
nected with this scandal openly. Now, if these people re- 
fuse to serve, by heavens, I’ll take the whole case to court, 
and give it an exposure as wide as the earth. If they’re 
agreeable, I’ll keep away from the courts, and the rougher 
part of the scandal.” 

“There’s your weapon,” said the Mayor, “the alter- 
native of committee or court. I’ll see to that part of the 
business. Do you get the escaped nun ready for her con- 
fession, and I’ll guarantee the committee, let us say inside 
of ten days. Your part, Grahame, will be to write up a 


220 


story for the morning papers, covering dramatically the 
details of this very remarkable episode.” 

They sat long discussing the various features of the 
scheme. 

Next morning Curran and Arthur sat down to talk over 
the terms of surrender in the detective's house. Colette 
still kept her bed, distracted with grief, and wild with 
apprehension over the sensational articles in the morning 
papers. Curran saw little hope for himself and his wife 
in the stern face of Dillon. 

“ At the start I would like to hear your explanation,” 
Arthur began coldly. “You were in my employ and in 
hers.” 

“ In hers only to hinder what evil I could, and to pro- 
tect her from herself,” the detective answered steadily and 
frankly. “ 1 make no excuse, because there isn’t any to 
make. But if I didn’t live up to my contract with you, I 
can say honestly that I never betrayed your interest. You 
can guess the helplessness of a man in my fix. I have no 
influence over Colette. She played her game against my 
wish and prayer. Most particular did I warn her against 
annoying you and yours. I was going to break up her 
designs on young Everard, when you did it yourself. I 
hope you ” 

In his nervous apprehension for Colette’s fate the strong- 
willed man broke down. He remained silent, struggling 
for his vanishing self-control. 

“ I understand, and I excuse you. The position was , 
nasty. I have always trusted you without knowing why 
exactly,” and he reflected a moment on that interesting 
fact. “ You did me unforgettable service in saving Louis 
Everard.” 

“ How glad I am you remember that service,” Curran 
gasped, like one who grasping at a straw finds it a plank. 

“ I foresaw this moment when I said to you that night, 

‘ I shall not be bashful about reminding you of it and 
asking a reward at the right time.’ I ask it now. For the 
boy’s sake be merciful with her. Don’t hand her over 
to the courts. Deal with her yourself, and I’ll help 
you.” 

For the boy’s sake, for that service so aptly rendered, 
for the joy it brought and the grief it averted, he could 
forget justice and crown Colette with diamonds ! Curran 


221 

trembled with eagerness and suspense. He loved her, — 
this wretch, witch, fiend of a woman ! 

“ The question is, can I deal with her myself ? She is 
intractable. ” 

“ You ought to know by this time that she will do 
anything for you . . . and still more when she has to 
choose between your wish and jail.” 

“ I shall require a good deal of her, not for my own 
sake, but to undo the evil work ” 

“ How I have tried to keep her out of that evil work,” 
Curran cried fiercely. “We are bad enough as it is 
without playing traitors to our own, and throwing mud on 
holy things. There can be no luck in it, and she knows 
it. When one gets as low as she has, it’s time for the 
funeral. Hell is more respectable.” 

Arthur did not understand this feeling in Curran. The 
man’s degradation seemed so complete to him that not 
even sacrilege could intensify it ; yet clearly the hardened 
sinner saw some depths below his own which excited his 
horror and loathing. 

“ If you think I can deal with her, I shall not invoke 
the aid of the law.” 

The detective thanked him in a breaking voice. He had 
enjoyed a very bad night speculating on the probable 
course of events. Colette came in shortly, and greeted 
Arthur as brazenly as usual, but with extreme sadness, 
which became her well ; so sweet, so delicate, so fragile, 
that he felt pleased to have forgiven her so early in the 
struggle. He had persecuted her, treated her with 
violence, and printed her history for the scornful pleasure 
of the world ; he had come to offer her the alternative of 
public shame or public trial and jail ; yet she had a patient 
smile for him, a dignified submission that touched him. 
After all, he thought with emotion, she is of the same 
nature with myself; a poor castaway from conventional 
life playing one part or another by caprice, for gain or 
sport or notoriety ; only the devil has entered into her, 
while I have been lucky enough to cast my lot with 
the exorcists of the race. He almost regretted his 
duty. 

“ I have taken possession of your office and papers, 
Colette,” said he with the dignity of the master. “ I 
dismissed the office-boy with his wages, and notified the 


222 


owner that you would need the rooms no more after the 
end of the month.” 

“ Thanks,” she murmured with downcast eyes. 

“Iam ready now to lay before you the conditions ” 

“ Are you going to send me to jail ?” 

“ I leave that to you,” he answered softly. “ You must 
withdraw your book from circulation. You must get an 
injunction from the courts to restrain the publishers, if 
they won’t stop printing at your request, and you must 
bring suit against them for your share of the profits. I 
want them to be exposed. My lawyer is at your service 
for such work.” 

“ This for the beginning ? ” she said in despair. 

“ You must write for me a confession next, describing 
your career, and the parts which you played in this city ; 
also naming your accomplices, your supporters, and what 
money they put up for your enterprise.” 

“You will find all that in my papers.” 

“ Is Mr. Livingstone’s name among your papers ? ” 

“ He was the ringleader. Of course.” 

“ Finally you must appear before a committee of gentle- 
men at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and show how you 
disguised yourself for the three parts of Edith Conyngham, 
Sister Claire, and the Brand of the gospel-hall.” 

She burst out crying then, looking from one man to the 
other with the tears streaming down her lovely face. 
Curran squirmed in anguish. Arthur studied her with 
interest. Who could tell when she was not acting ? 

“ Ah, you wretch ! I am bad. Sometimes I can’t bear 
myself. But you are worse, utterly without heart. You 
think I don’t feel my position.” 

Her sobbing touched him by its pathos and its clever- 
ness. 

“ You are beyond feeling, but you must talk about 
feeling,” was his hard reply. “ Probably I shall make 
you feel before the end of this adventure.” 

“ As if you hadn’t done it already,” she fairly bawled 
like a hurt child. “ For months I have not left the house 
without seeing everywhere the dogs that tore Jezebel.” 

“ You might also have seen that poor child whom you 
nearly drove to death,” he retorted, “and the mother 
whose heart you might have broken.” 

“ Poor child ! ” she sneered, and burst out laughing 


223 


while the tears still lingered on her cheek. “ He was a 
milksop, not a man. I thought he was a man, or I never 
would have offered him pleasure. And you want me to 
make a show of myself before . . .” 

“ Your old friends and well-wishers, McMeeter, Bradford 
and Co.” 

“ Never, never, never,” she screamed, and fell to 
weeping again. “ I’ll die first.” 

“ You won’t be asked to die, madam. You’ll go to jail 
the minute I leave this house, and stand trial on fifty 
different charges. I’ll keep you in jail for the rest of 
your life. If by any trick you escape me, I’ll deliver you 
to the dogs.*” 

“ Can he do this ? ” she said scornfully to Curran, who 
nodded. 

“ And if I agree to it, what do I get ?” turning again 
to Dillon. 

“You can live in peace as La Belle Colette the 
dancer, practise your profession, and enjoy the embraces 
of your devoted husband. I let you off lightly. Your 
private life, your stage name, will be kept from the public, 
and, by consequence, from the dogs.” 

She shivered at the phrase. Shame was not in her, but 
fear could grip her heart vigorously. Her nerve did not 
exclude cowardice. This man she had always feared, 
perceiving in him not only a strength beyond the common, 
but a mysterious power not to be analyzed and named. 
Her flimsy rage would break hopelessly on this rock. 
Still before surrendering, her crooked nature forced her 
to the petty arts in which she excelled. Very clearly in 
this acting appeared the various strokes of character 
peculiar to Edith, Claire, and the Brand. She wheedled 
and whined one moment in the husky tones of Sister 
Magdalen’s late favorite ; when dignity was required she 
became the escaped nun ; and in her rage she would burst 
into the melodramatic frenzy dear to the McMeeter 
audiences ; but Colette, the heedless, irresponsible, half- 
mad butterfly, dominated these various parts, and to this 
charming personality she returned. Through his own sad 
experience this spectacle interested him. He subdued her 
finally by a precise description of consequences. 

“ You have done the Catholics of this city harm that 
will last a long time, Colette,” said he. “That vile book 


224 


of yours . . . you ought to be hung for it. It will live to 
do its miserable work when you are in hell howling. I 
really don’t know why I should be merciful to you. Did 
you ever show mercy to any one ? The court would do 
this for you and for us : the facts, figures, and personages 
of your career would be dragged into the light of day . . . 
what a background that would be . . . not a bad company 
either . . . not a fact would escape . . . you would be 
painted as you are. I’ll not tell you what you are, but I 
know that you would die of your own colors . . . you 
would go to jail, and rot there . . . every time you came 
out I’d have a new charge on which to send you back. 
Your infamy would be printed by columns in the 
papers . . . and the dogs would be put on your trail . . . 
ah, there’s the rub ... if the law let you go free, what a 
meal you’d make for the people who think you ought to 
be torn limb from limb, and who would do it with joy. I 
really do not understand why I offer you an alternative. 
Perhaps it’s for the sake of this man who loves you . . . 
for the great service he did me.” 

He paused to decide this point, while she gazed like a 
fascinated bird. 

“ What I want is this really,” he went on. “ I want to 
let the city see just what tools Livingstone, your employer, 
is willing to do his dirty work with. I want this committee 
to assemble with pomp and circumstance . . . those are 
the right words . . . and to see you, in your very cleverest 
way, act the parts through w r hich you fooled the wise. I 
want them to hear you say in that sweetest of voices, how 
you lied to them to get their dollars . . . how you lied 
about us, your own people, threw mud on us, as Curran 
says, to get their dollars . . . how your life, and your 
book, and your lectures, are all lies . . . invented and 
printed because the crowd that devoured them were eager 
to believe us the horrible creatures you described. When 
you have done that, you can go free. No one will know 
your husband, or your name, or your profession. I don’t 
see why you hesitate. I don’t know why I should offer 
you this chance. When Birmingham hears your story he 
will not approve of my action. But if you agree to follow 
my directions to the letter, I’ll promise that the law will 
not seize you.” 

What could she do but accept his terms, protesting that 


225 


death was preferable ? The risk of losing her just as the 
committee would be ready to meet, for her fickleness 
verged on insanity, he had to accept. He trusted in his 
own watchfulness, and in the fidelity of Curran to keep 
her in humor. Even now she forgot her disasters in the 
memory of her success as an impersonator, and entertained 
the men with scenes from her masquerade as Edith, Claire, 
and the Brand. From such a creature, so illy balanced, 
one might expect anything. 

However, by judicious coddling and terrorizing, her 
courage and spirit were kept alive to the very moment 
when she stood before Birmingham and his committee, 
heard her confession of imposture read, signed it with 
perfect sang-froid, and illustrated for the scandalized 
members her method of impersonation. So had Arthur 
worked upon her conceit that she took a real pride in 
displaying her costumes, and in explaining how skilfully 
she had led three lives in that city. Grim, bitter, 
sickened with disappointment, yet masked in smiles, part 
of the committee watched her performance to the end. 
They felt the completeness of Arthur's triumph. With 
the little airs and graces peculiar to a stage artiste, Edith 
put on the dusty costume of Edith Conyngham, and limped 
feebly across the floor ; then the decorous garments of 
the Brand, and whispered tenderly in McMeeter's ear ; 
last, the brilliant habit of the escaped nun, the curious 
eyebrows, the pallid face ; curtseying at the close of the 
performance with her bold eyes on her audience, as if 
beseeching the merited applause. In the dead silence 
afterwards, Arthur mercifully led her away. 

The journals naturally gave the affair large attention, 
and the net results were surprisingly fine. The house of 
cards so lovingly built up by Livingstone and his friends 
tumbled in a morning never to rise again. All the little 
plans failed like kites snipped of their tails. Fritters went 
home, because the public lost interest in his lectures. The 
book of the escaped nun fell flat and disappeared from the 
market. McMeeter gave up his scheme of rescuing the 
inmates of convents and housing them until married. The 
hired press ignored the Paddies and their island for a 
whole year. Best of all, suddenly, on the plea of dying 
among his friends, Led with was set free, mainly through 
the representations of Lord Constantine in London and 
A 5 


226 


Arthur in Washington. These rebuffs told upon the Min- 
ister severely. He knew from whose strong hand they 
came, and that the same hand would not soon tire of 
striking. 


227 


CHAPTEK XXIY. 

ANNE MAKES HISTORY. 

In the months that followed Anne Dillon lived as near 
to perfect felicity as earthly conditions permit. A count- 
ess and a lord breathed under her roof, ate at her table, 
and talked prose and poetry with her as freely as Judy 
Haskell. The Countess of Skibbereen and Lord Constan- 
tine had accompanied the Ledwiths to America, after 
Owen’s liberation from jail, and fallen victims to the wiles 
of this clever woman. Arthur might look after the insig- 
nificant Ledwiths. Anne would have none of them. She 
belonged henceforth to the nobility. His lordship was 
bent on utilizing his popularity with the Irish to further 
the cause of the Anglo-American Alliance. As the friend 
who had stood by the Fenian prisoners, not only against 
embittered England, but against indifferent Livingstone, 
he was welcomed ; and if he wanted an alliance, or an 
heiress, or the freedom of the city, or anything which the 
Irish could buy for him, he had only to ask in order to 
receive. Anne sweetly took the responsibility off his 
shoulders, after he had outlined his plans. 

“ Leave it all to me,” said she. “ You shall win the 
support of all these people without turning your hand over.” 

“ You may be sure she’ll d T o it much'better than you 
will,” was the opinion of the Countess, and the young man 
was of the same mind. 

She relied chiefly on Doyle Grahame for one part of her 
progranh but that effervescent youth had fallen into a 
state of discouragement which threatened to leave him 
quite useless. He shook his head to her demand for a 
column in next morning’s Herald. 

“Same old story . . . the Countess and you . . . 
lovely costumes . . . visits ... it won’t go. The 
editors are wondering why there’s so much of you.” 

“ Hasn’t it all been good ?” 


228 


“ Of course, or it would not have been printed. But 
there must come an end sometime. What’s yonr aim any- 
way ? ” 

“ I want a share in making history,” she said slyly. 

“ Take a share in making mine,” he answered morosely, 
and thereupon she landed him. 

“ Oh, run away with Mona, if you’re thinking of mar- 
rying.” 

“ Thinking of it ! Talking of it ! That’s as near as I 
can get to it,” he groaned. “ John Everard is going to 
drive a desperate bargain with me. I wrote a book, 
I helped to expose Edith Conyngham, I drove Fritters 
out of the country with my ridicule, I shocked Bradford, 
and silenced McMeeter ; and I have failed to move that 
wretch. All I got out of my labors was permission 
to sit beside Mona in her own house with her father 
present.” 

“ You humor the man too much,” Anne said with a 
laugh. “I can twist John Everard about my finger, 
only ” 

“ There it is,” cried Grahame. “ Behold it in its naked 
simplicity ! Only ! Well, if anything short of the divine 
can get around, over, under, through, or by his sweet, 
little ‘only,’ lie’s fit to be the next king of Ireland. What 
have I not done to do away with it ? Once I thought, I 
hoped, that the invitation to read the poem on the land- 
ing of the Pilgrim Fathers, coming as a climax to multi- 
tudinous services, would surely have fetched him. Now, 
with the invitation in my pocket, I’m afraid to mention it. 
What if he should scorn it ?” 

“ He won’t if I say the word. Give me the column to- 
morrow, and any time I want it for a month or two, and 
I’ll guarantee that John Everard will do the right thing 
by you.” 

“ You can have the column. What do you want it for ? ” 

“ The alliance, of course. I’m in the business of making 
history, as I told you. Don’t open your mouth quite so 
wide, please. There’s to be a meeting of the wise in this 
house, after a dinner, to express favorable opinions about 
the alliance. Then in a month or two a distinguished 
peer, member of the British Cabinet, is coming over to 
sound the great men on the question. . . . What are you 
whistling for ? ” 


229 

“ You’ve got a fine thing, Mrs. Dillon,” said he. “ By 
Jove, but HI help you spread this for all it’s worth.” 

“ Understand,” she said, tapping the table with em- 
phasis, “ the alliance must go through as far as we can make 
it go. Now, do your best. When you go over to see John 
Everard next, go with a mind to kill him if he doesn’t 
take your offer to marry his daughter. I’ll sec to it that 
the poem on the Pilgrims does the trick for you.” 

“ I’d have killed him long ago, if I thought it worth the 
trouble,” he said. 

He felt that the crisis had come for him and Mona. 
That charming girl, in spite of his entreaties, of his threats 
to go exploring Africa, remained as rigidly faithful to her 
ideas of duty as her father to his obstinacy. She would 
not marry without his consent. With all his confidence 
in Anne’s cleverness, how could he expect her to do the 
impossible ? To change the unchangeable ? John Ever- 
ard showed no sign of the influence which had brought 
Livingstone to his knees, when Grahame and Mona stood 
before him, and the lover placed in her father’s hands the 
document of honor. 

“ Really, this is wonderful,” said Everard, impressed to 
the point of violence. “You are to compose and to read 
the poem on the Pilgrim Fathers ? ” 

“That’s the prize,” said Grahame severely. He might 
be squaring off at this man the next moment, and could 
not carry his honors lightly. “And now that it has come 
I want my reward. We must be married two weeks be- 
fore I read that poem, and the whole world must see and 
admire the source of my inspiration.” 

He drew his beloved into his arms and kissed her pale 
cheek. 

“ Very well. That will be appropriate,” the father said 
placidly, clearing his throat to read the invitation aloud. 
He read pompously, quite indifferent to the emotion of his 
children, proud that they were to be prominent figures in 
a splendid gathering. They, beatified, pale, unstrung 
by this calm acceptance of what he had opposed bitterly 
two years, sat down foolishly, and listened to the pompous 
utterance of pompous phrases in praise of dead heroes and 
a living poet. Thought and speech failed together. If 
only some desperado would break in upon him and try to 
kill him ! if the house would take fire, or a riot begin in 


230 


the street ! The old man finished his reading, congratu- 
lated the poet, blessed the pair in the old-fashioned style, 
informed his wife of the date of the wedding, and marched 
off to bed. After pulling at that door for years it was 
maddening to have the very frame-work come out as if 
cemented with butter. What an outrage to come prepared 
for heroic actiou, and to find the enemy turned friend ! 
Oh, admirable enchantress was this Anne Dillon ! 

The enchantress, having brought Grahameinto line and 
finally into good humor, took up the more difficult task 
of muzzling her stubborn son. To win him to the good 
cause, she had no hope ; sufficient, if he could be won to 
silence while diplomacy shaped the course of destiny. 

“ Better let me be on that point,” Arthur said when she 
made her attack. “I’m hostile only when disturbed. 
Lord Conny owns us for the present. I won’t say a word 
to shake his title. Neither will I lift my eyebrows to 
help this enterprise.” 

“ If you only will keep quiet,” she suggested. 

“Well, I’m trying to. I’m set against alliance with 
England, until we have knocked the devil out of her, beg- 
ging your pardon for my frankness. I must speak plainly 
now so that we may not fall out afterwards. But I’ll be 
quiet. I’ll not say a word to influence a soul. I’ll do 
just as Ledwith does.” 

He laughed at the light which suddenly shone in her 
face. 

‘‘That’s a fair promise,” she said smoothly, and fled be- 
fore he could add conditions. 

Her aim and her methods alike remained hidden from 
him. He knew only that she was leading them all by the 
nose to some brilliant climax of her own devising. He 
was willing to be led. The climax turned out to be a din- 
ner. Anne had long ago discovered the secret influence 
of a fine dinner on the politics of the world. The halo 
of a saint pales before the golden nimbus which well-fed 
guests see radiating from their hostess after dinner. A 
good man may possess a few robust virtues, but the 
dinner-giver has them all. Therefore, the manager of 
the alliance gathered about her table one memorable eve- 
ning the leaders whose good opinion and hearty support 
Lord Constantine valued in his task of winning the Irish 
to neutrality or favor for his enterprise. Arthur recog- 


231 


nized the climax only when Lord Constantine, after the 
champagne had sparkled in the glasses, began to explain 
his dream to Sullivan. 

“ What do you think of it ? ” said he. 

“It sounds as harmless as a popgun, and looks like a 
vision. I don’t see any details in your scheme,” said the 
blunt leader graciously. 

“We can leave the details to the framers of the al- 
liance,” said His Lordship, uneasy at Arthur’s laugh. 
“ What we want first is a large, generous feeling in its 
favor, to encourage the leaders.” 

“ Well, in general,” said the Boss, “ it is a good thing 
for all countries to live in harmony When they speak 
the same language, it’s still better. I have no feeling one 
way or the other. I left Ireland young, and would hardly 
have remembered I’m Irish but for Livingstone. What 
do you think of it, Senator ? ” 

“ An alliance with England ! ” cried he with contempt. 
“ Fancy me walking down to a district meeting with such 
an auctioneer’s tag hanging on my back. Why, I’d be 
sold out on the spot. Those people haven’t forgot how 
they were thrown down and thrown out of Ireland. No, 
sir. Leave us out of an alliance.” 

“That’s the popular feeling, I think,” Sullivan said to 
His Lordship. 

“ I can understand the Senator’s feelings,” the English- 
man replied softly. “ But if, before the alliance came to 
pass, the Irish question should be well settled, how would 
that affect your attitude, Senator ? ” 

“ My attitude,” replied the Senator, posing as he re- 
flected that a budding statesman made the inquiry, 
“ would be entirely in your favor.” 

“ Thank you. What more could I ask ? ” Lord Con- 
stantine replied with a fierce look at Arthur. “I say 
myself, until the Irish get their rights, no alliance.” 

“ Then we are with you cordially. We want to do all 
we can for a man who has been so fair to our people,” the 
Boss remarked with the flush of good wine in his cheek. 
“ Champagne sentiments,” murmured Arthur. 

Monsignor, prompted by Anne, came to the rescue of 
the young nobleman. 

“ There would be a row, if the matter came up for dis- 
cussion just now,” he said. “ Ten years hence may see a 


232 


change. There’s one thing in favor of Irish . . . well, 
call it neutrality. Speaking as a churchman, Catholics 
have a happier lot in English-speaking lands than in other 
countries. They have the natural opportunity to develop, 
they are not hampered in speech and action as in Italy and 
France.” 

“ How good of you to say so,” murmured His Lord- 
ship. 

“Then again,” continued Monsignor', with a sly glance 
at Arthur, “ it seems to me inevitable that the English- 
speaking peoples must come into closer communion, not 
merely for their own good, or for selfish aims, but to 
spread among less fortunate nations their fine political prin- 
ciples. There’s the force, the strength, of the whole 
scheme. Put poor Ireland on her feet, and I vote for an 
alliance.” 

“Truly, a Daniel come to judgment,” murmured 
Arthur. 

“ It’s a fine view to take of it,” the Boss thought. 

“ Are you afraid to ask Led with for an opinion ? ” 
Arthur suggested. 

“ What’s he got to do with it ? ” Everard snapped, un- 
softened by the mellow atmosphere of the feast. 

“It is no longer a practical question with me,” Owen 
said cheerfully. “ I have always said that if the common 
people of the British Isles got an understanding of each 
other, and a better liking for each other, the end of 
oppression would come very soon. They are kept apart 
by the artificial hindrances raised by the aristocracy of 
birth and money. The common people easily fraternize, 
if they are permitted. See them in this country, living, 
working, intermarrying, side by side.” 

“How will that sound among the brethren?” said 
Arthur disappointed. 

His mother flashed him a look of triumph, and Lord 
Constantine looked foolishly happy. 

“ As the utterance of a maniac, of course. Have they 
ever regarded me as sane ?” he answered easily. 

“ And what becomes of your dream ? ” Arthur per- 
sisted. 

“ I have myself become a dream,” he answered sadly. 
“ I am passing into the land of dreams, of shadows. My 
dream was Ireland ; a principle that would bring forth its 


233 


own flower, fruit, and seed ; not a department of an 
empire. Who knows what is best in this world of change ? 
Some day men may realize the poet's dream : 

“ The parliament of man, the federation of the world.” 

Arthur surrendered with bad grace. He had expected 
from Ledwith the last, grand, fiery denunciation which 
would have swept the room as a broadside sweeps a deck, 
and hurled the schemes of his mother and Lord Constan- 
tine into the sea. Sad, sad, to see how champagne can 
undo such a patriot ! For that matter the golden wine had 
undone the entire party. Judy declared to her dying day 
that the alliance was toasted amid cheers before the close 
of the banquet ; that Lord Constantine in his delight 
kissed Anne as she left the room ; with many other cir- 
cumstances too improbable to find a place in a veracious 
history. It is a fact, however, that the great scheme 
which still agitates the peoples interested, had its success 
depended on the guests of Anne Dillon, would have been 
adopted that night. The dinner was a real triumph. 

Unfortunately, dinners do not make treaties ; and, as 
Arthur declared, one dinner is good enough until a better 
is eaten. When the member of the British Cabinet came 
to sit at Anne's table, if one might say so, the tables were 
turned. Birmingham instead of Monsignor played the 
lead ; the man whose practical temperament, financial and 
political influence, could soothe and propitiate his own 
people and interest the moneyed men in the alliance. It 
was admitted no scheme of this kind could progress with- 
out his aid. He had been reserved for the Cabinet Minister. 

No one thought much about the dinner except the 
hostess, who felt, as she looked down the beautiful table, 
that her glory had reached its brilliant meridian. A 
cabinet minister, a lord, a countess, a leading Knicker- 
bocker, the head of Tammany, and a few others who did 
not matter ; what a long distance from the famous cat- 
show and Mulberry Street ! Arthur also looked up the 
table with satisfaction. If his part in the play had not 
been dumb show (by his mother's orders), he would have 
quoted the famous grind of the mills of the gods. The 
two races, so unequally matched at home, here faced each 
other on equal ground. Birmingham knew what he had 
to do. 


234 


“ I am sure,” he said to the cabinet minister, “ that in 
a matter so serious you want absolute sincerity ? ” 

“ Absolute, and thank you,” replied the great man. 

“ Then let me begin with myself. Personally I would 
not lift my littlest finger to help this scheme. I might 
not go out of my way to hinder it, but I am that far Irish 
in feeling, not to aid England so finely. For a nation 
that will soon be without a friend in the world, an alliance 
with us would be of immense benefit. No man of Irish 
blood, knowing what his race has endured and still endures 
from the English, can keep his self-respect and back the 
scheme.” 

Arthur was sorry for his lordship, who sat utterly 
astounded and cast down wofnlly at this expression of 
feeling from such a man. 

“ The main question can be answered in this way,” 
Birmingham continued. “ Were I willing to take part in 
this business, my influence with the Irish and their de- 
scendants, whatever it may be, would not be able to bring 
a corporal’s guard into line in its behalf.” 

Lord Constantine opened his mouth, Everard snorted 
his contempt, but the great man signaled silence. Bir- 
mingham paid no attention. 

“In this country the Irish have learned much more 
than saving money and acquiring power ; they have 
learned the unredeemed blackness of the injustice done 
them at home, just as I learned it. What would Grahame 
here, Sullivan, Senator Dillon, or myself have been at this 
moment had we remained in Ireland ? Therefore the 
Irish in this country are more bitter against the English 
government than their brethren at home. I am certain 
that no man can rally even a minority of the Irish to the 
support of the alliance. I am sure I could not. I am 
certain the formal proposal of the scheme would rouse 
them to fiery opposition.” 

“ Kemember,” Arthur whispered to Everard, raging to 
speak, “that the Cabinet Minister doesn’t care to hear 
anyone but Birmingham.” 

“ I’m sorry for you, Conny,” he whispered to his lord- 
ship, “ but it’s the truth.” 

“Never enjoyed anything so much,” said Grahame sotto 
voce , his eyes on Everard. 

“ However, let us leave the Irish out of the question,” 


235 


the speaker went on. “ Or, better, let us suppose them 
favorable, and myself able to win them over. What 
chance lias the alliance of success ? None.” 

“ Fudge !” cried Everard, unabashed by the beautiful 
English stare of the C. M. 

“ The measure is one-sided commercially. This country 
has nothing to gain from a scheme, which would be a 
mine to England ; therefore the moneyed men will not 
touch it, will not listen to it. Their time is too valuable. 
What remains ? An appeal to the people on the score 
of humanity, brotherhood, progress, what you please. 
My opinion is that the dead weight there could not be 
moved. The late war and the English share in it are too 
fresh in the public mind. The outlook to me is utterly 
against your scheme.” 

“It might be objected to your view that feeling is too 
strong an element of it,” said the Cabinet Minister. 

“ Feeling has only to do with my share in the scheme,” 
Birmingham replied. “ As an Irishman I would not 
further it, yet I might be glad to see it succeed. My opin- 
ion is concerned with the actual conditions as I see them.” 

With this remark the formal discussion ended. Morti- 
fied at this outcome of his plans, Lord Constantine could 
not be consoled. 

“ As long as Livingstone is on your side, Conny,” said 
Arthur, “ you are foredoomed.” 

“I am not so sure,” His Lordship answered with some 
bitterness. “The Chief Justice of the United States is a 
good friend to have.” 

A thrill shot through Dillon at this emphasis to a 
rumor hitherto too light for printing. The present in- 
cumbent of the high office mentioned by Lord Constantine 
lay dying. Livingstone coveted few places, and this 
would be one. In so exalted a station he would be “ en- 
skied and sainted.” Even his proud soul would not dis- 
dain to step from the throne-room of Windsor to the dais 
of the Supreme Court of his country. And to strike him 
in the very moment of his triumph, to snatch away the 
prize, to close his career like a broken sentence with a 
dash and a mark of interrogation, to bring him home like 
any dead game in a bag : here would be magnificent justice ! 

“ Have I found thee, 0 mine enemy ?” Arthur cried in 
his delight. 


236 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE CATHEDRAL. 

Ledwith was dying in profound depression, like most 
brave souls, whose success has been partial, or whose fail- 
ure has been absolute. This mournful ending to a brave, 
unselfish life seemed to Arthur pitiful and monstrous. 
A mere breathing-machine like himself had enjoyed a 
stimulating vengeance for the failure of one part of his 
life. Oh, how sweet had been that vengeance ! The 
draught had not yet reached the bottom of the cup ! His 
cause for the moment a ruin, dragged down with Fenian- 
ism ; his great enemy stronger, more glorious, and more 
pitiless than when he had first raised his hand against her 
injustice ; now the night had closed in upon Ledwith, 
not merely the bitter night of sickness and death and fail- 
ure, but that more savage night of despondency, which 
steeps all human sorrow in the black, polluted atmosphere 
of hell. For such a sufferer the heart of Arthur Dillon 
opened as wide as the gates of heaveu. Oh, had he not 
known what it is to suffer so, without consolation ! 

He was like a son to Owen Ledwith. 

Every plan born in the poetic and fertile brain of the 
patriot he took oath to carry out ; he vowed his whole life 
to the cause of Ireland ; and he consoled Owen for ap- 
parent failure by showing him that he had not altogether 
failed, since a man, young, earnest, determined, and 
wealthy should take up the great work just where he 
dropped it. Could any worker ask more of life ? A hero 
should go to his eternity with lofty joy, leaving his noble 
example to the mean world, a reproach to the despicable 
among rulers, a star in the night to the warriors of 
justice. 

In Honora her father did not find the greatest comfort. 
His soul was of the earth and human liberty was his day- 
star ; her soul rose above that great human good to the 


237 


freedom of heaven. Her heart ached for him, that he 
should be going out of life with only human consolation. 
The father stood in awe of an affection which at the same 
time humbled and exalted him ; she had never loved man 
or woman like him ; he was next to God in that virginal 
heart, for with all her love of country, the father had the 
stronger hold on her. Too spiritual for him, her sublime 
faith did not cheer him. Yet when they looked straight 
into each other's eyes with the consciousness of what was 
coming, mutual anguish terribly probed their love. He 
had no worry for her. 

“She has the best of friends, ” he said to Arthur, “she 
is capable, and trained to take care of herself handsomely ; 
but these things will not be of any use. She will go to 
the convent. ” 

“Not if Lord Constantine can hinder it,” Arthur said 
bluntly. 

“ I would like to see her in so exalted and happy a sphere 
as Lord Constantine could give her. But I am convinced 
that the man is not born who can win the love of this 
child of mine. Sir Galahad might, but not the stuff of 
which you and I are made.” 

“I believe you,” said Arthur. 

Honora herself told him of her future plans, as they 
sat with the sick man after a trying evening, when for 
some hours the end seemed near. The hour invited con- 
fidences, and like brother and sister at the sick-bed of a 
beloved parent they exchanged them. When she had 
finished telling him how she had tried to do her duty to 
her father, and to her country, and how she had laid aside 
her idea of the convent for their sake, but would now take 
up her whole duty to God by entering a sisterhood, he 
said casually : 

“ It seems to me these three duties work together ; and 
when you were busiest with your father and your country, 
then were you most faithful to God.” 

“Very true,” she replied, looking up with surprise. 
“ Obedience is better than sacrifice.” 

“ Take care that you are not deceiving yourself, 
Honora. Which would cause more pain, to give up your 
art and your cause, or to give up the convent ? ” 

“ To give up the convent,” she replied promptly. 

“That looks to me liks selfishness,” he said gently. 


238 


“ There are many nuns in the convents working for the 
wretched and helping the poor and praying for the op- 
pressed, while only a few women are devoted directly to 
the cause of freedom. It strikes me that you descend 
when you retire from a field of larger scope to one which 
narrows your circle and diminishes your opportunities. I 
am not criticizing the nun’s life, but simply your personal 
scheme.” 

“And you think 1 descend?” she murmured with a 
little gasp of pain. “Why, how can that be ?” 

“You are giving up the work, the necessary work, 
which few women are doing, to take up a work in which 
many women are engaged,” he answered, uncertain of his 
argument, but quite sure of his intention. “ You lose 
great opportunities to gain small ones, purely personal. 
That’s the way it looks to me.” 

With wonderful cunning he unfolded his arguments in 
the next few weeks. He appealed to her love for her 
father, her wish to see his work continued ; he described 
his own helplessness, very vaguely though, in carrying out 
schemes with which he was unacquainted, and to which he 
was vowed ; he mourned over the helpless peoples of the 
world, for whom a new community was needed to fight, 
as the Knights of St. John fought for Christendom ; and 
he painted with delicate satire that love of ease which 
leads heroes to desert the greater work for the lesser on 
the plea of the higher life. Selfishly she sought rest, 
relief for the taxing labors, anxieties, and journeys of 
fifteen years, and not the will of God, as she imagined. 
Was he conscious of his own motives ? Did he discover 
therein any selfishness ? Who can say ? 

He discoursed at the same time to Owen, and in the 
same fashion. Ledwith felt that his dreams were patch 
work beside the rainbow visions of this California miner, 
who had the mines which make the wildest dreams come 
true sometimes. The wealthy enthusiast might fall, how- 
ever, into the hands of the professional patriot, who would 
bleed him to death in behalf of paper schemes. To whom 
could he confide him ? Honora ! It had always been 
Honora with him, who could do nothing without her. He 
did not wish to hamper her in the last moment, as he had 
hampered her since she had first planned her own life. 

It was even a pleasant thought for him, to think of his 


239 


faithful child living her beautiful, quiet, convent life, 
after the fatigues and pilgrimages of years, devoted to his 
memory, mingling his name with her prayers, innocent of 
any other love than for him and her Creator. Yes, she 
must be free as the air after he died. However, the sick 
are not masters of their emotions. A great dread and a 
great anguish filled him. Would it be his fate to lose 
Arthur to Ireland by consideration for others ? But he 
loved her so ! How could he bind her in bonds at the 
very moment of their bitter separation ? He would not 
do it ! He would not do it ! He fought down his own 
longing until he woke up in a sweat of terror one night, 
and called to her loudly, fearing that he would die before 
he exacted from her the last promise. He must sacrifice 
all for his country, even the freedom of his child. 

“Honora,” he cried, “was I ever faithless to Erin ? 
Did I ever hesitate when it was a question of money, or 
life, or danger, or suffering for her sake ? ” 

“ Never, father dear,” she said, soothing him like a 
child. 

“ I have sinned now, then. For your sake I have 
sinned. I wished to leave you free when I am gone, 
although I saw you were still necessary to Erin. Promise 
me, my child, that you will delay a little after I am gone, 
before entering the convent ; that you will make sure 
beforehand that Erin has no great need of you . . . just 

a month or a year . . . any delay ” 

“ As long as you please, father,” she said quietly. 

“ Make it five years if you will ” 

“No, no,” he interrupted with anguish in his throat. 
“I shall never demand again from you the sacrifices of the 
past. What may seem just to you will be enough. I die 
almost happy in leaving Arthur Dillon to carry on with 
his talent and his money the schemes of which I only 
dreamed. But I fear the money patriots will get hold of 
him and cheat him of his enthusiasm and his money 
together. If you were by to let him know what was best 

to be done — that is all I ask of you ” 

“ A year at least then, father dear ! What is time to 
you and me that we should be stingy of the only thing we 
ever really possessed.” 

“ And now I lose even that,” with a long sigh. 

Thus gently and naturally Arthur gained his point. 


240 


Monsignor came often, and then oftener when Owen’s 
strength began to fail rapidly. The two friends in Irish 
politics had little agreement, but in the gloom of approach- 
ing death they remembered only their friendship. The 
priest worked vainly to put Owen into a proper frame of 
mind before his departure for judgment. He had made 
his peace with the Church, and received the last rites like 
a believer, but with the coldness of him who receives 
necessities from one who has wronged him. He was dying, 
not like a Christian, but like the pagan patriot who has 
failed : only the shades awaited him when he fled from 
the darkness of earthly shame. They sat together one 
March afternoon facing the window and the declining sun. 
To the right another window gave them a good view of 
the beautiful cathedral, whose twin spires, many turrets, 
and noble walls shone blue and golden in the brilliant 
light. 

“ I love to look at it from this elevation,” said Mon- 
signor, who had just been discoursing on the work of his 
life. “ In two years, just think, the most beautiful 
temple in the western continent will be dedicated.” 

The money that has gone into it would have struck 
a great blow for Erin,” said Ledwith with a bitter sigh. 

“ So much of it as escaped the yawning pockets of the 
numberless patriots,” retorted Monsignor dispassionately. 
“ The money would not have been lost in so good a cause, 
but its present use has done more for your people than a 
score of the blows which you aim at England.” 

“ Claim everything in sight while you are at it,” said 
Owen. “ In God’s name what connection has your gor- 
geous cathedral with any one’s freedom ? ” 

“ Father dear, you are exciting yourself,” Honora broke 
in, but neither heeded her. 

“ Christ brought us true freedom,” said Monsignor, 
“ and the Church alone teaches, practises, and maintains 
it.” 

“ A fine example is provided by Ireland, where to a dead 
certainty freedom was lost because the Church had too 
unnatural a hold upon the people.” 

“ What was lost on account of the faith will be given 
back again with compound interest. Political and mili- 
tary movements have done much for Ireland in fifty years ; 
but the only real triumphs, universal, brilliant, enduring, 


241 


significant, leading surely up to greater things, have been 
won by the Irish faith, of which that cathedral, shining so 
gloriously in the sun this afternoon, is both a result and a 
symbol.” 

“I believe you will die with that conviction,” Led with 
said in wonder. 

“I wish you could die with the same, Owen,” replied 
Monsignor tenderly. 

They fell silent for a little under the stress of sudden 
feeling. 

“ How do men reason themselves into such absurdities ? ” 
Owen asked himself. 

“ You ought to know. You have done it often enough,” 
said the priest tartly. 

Then both laughed together, as they always did when 
the argument became personal. 

“ Do you know what Livingstone and Bradford and the 
people whom they represent think of that temple ?” said 
Monsignor impressively. 

“ Oli, their opinions !” Owen snorted. 

“ They are significant,” replied the priest. “ These two 
leaders would give the price of the building to have kept 
down or destroyed the spirit which undertook and carried 
out the scheme. They have said to themselves many times 
in the last twenty years, while that temple rose slowly but 
gloriously into being, what sort of a race is this, so de- 
spised and ill-treated, so poor and ignorant, that in a brief 
time on our shores can build the finest temple to God 
which this country has yet seen ? What will the people, 
to whom we have described this race as sunk in papist- 
ical stupidity, debased, unenterprising, think, when they 
gaze on this absolute proof of our mendacity ?” 

Ledwith, in silence, took a second look at the shining 
walls and towers. 

“ Owen, your generous but short-sighted crowd have 
fought England briefly and unsuccessfully a few times on 
the soil of Ireland . . . but the children of the faith have 
fought her with church, and school, and catechism around 
the globe. Their banner, around which they fought, was 
not the banner of the Fenians but the banner of Lhrist. 
What did you do for the scattered children of the house- 
hold ? Nothing, but collect their moneys. While the 
great Church followed them everywhere with her priests, 


242 


centered them about the temple, and made them the bul- 
wark of the faith, the advance-guard, in many lands. 
Here in America, and in all the colonies of England, in 
Scotland, even in England itself, wherever the Irish set- 
tled, the faith took root and flourished ; the faith which 
means death to the English heresy, and to English power 
as far as it rests upon the heresy.” 

“ The faith kept the people together, scattered all over 
the world. It organized them, it trained them, it kept 
them true to the Christ preached by St. Patrick ; it built 
the fortress of the temple, and the rampart of the school ; 
it kept them a people apart, it kept them civilized, saved 
them from inevitable apostasy, and founded a force from 
which you collect your revenues for battle with your ene- 
mies ; a force which fights England all over the earth 
night and day, in legislatures, in literature and journal- 
ism, in social and commercial life . . . why, man, you 
are a fragment, a mere fragment, you and your warriors, 
of that great fight which has the world for an audience 
and the English earths for its stage.” 

“ When did you evolve this new fallacy ? ” said Ledwith 
hoarsely. 

“ You have all been affected with the spirit of the anti- 
Catholic revolution in Europe, whose cry is that the Church 
is the enemy of liberty ; yours, that it has been no friend 
to Irish liberty. Take another look at that cathedral. 
When you are dead, and many others that will live longer, 
that church will deliver its message to the people who 
pass : I am the child of the Catholic faith and the Irish ; 
the broad shoulders of America waited for a simple, poor, 
cast-out people, to dig me from the earth and shape me 
into a thing of beauty, a glory of the new continent ; I 
myself am not new ; I am of that race which in Europe 
speaks in divine language to you pigmies of the giants that 
lived in ancient days ; I am a new bond between the old 
continent and the new, between the old order and the new ; 
I speak for the faith of the past ; I voice the faith of the 
hour ; the hands that raised me are not unskilled and 
untrained ; from what I am judge, ye people, of what 
stuff my builders are made.’ And around the. world, in 
all the capitals, in the great cities, of the English-speak- 
ing peoples, temples of lesser worth and beauty, are speak- 
ing in the same strain.” 


243 


Honora anxiously watched her father. A new light 
shone upon him, a new emotion disturbed him ; perhaps 
that old hardness within was giving way. Ledwith 
had the poetic temperament, and the philosopher’s 
power of generalization. A hint could open a grand ho- 
rizon before him, and the cathedral in its solemn beauty 
was the hint. Of course, he could see it all, blind as he 
had been before. The Irish revolution worked fitfully, 
and exploded in a night, its achievement measured by the 
period of a month ; but this temple and its thousand sis- 
ters lived on doing their good work in silence, fighting for 
the truth without noise or conspiracy. 

“ And this is the glory of the Irish,” Monsignor contin- 
ued, “ this is the fact which fills me with pride, American 
as 1 am, in the race whose blood I own ; they have preserved 
the faith for the great English-speaking world. Already 
the new principle peculiar to that faith has begun its work 
in literature, in art, in education, in social life. Heresy 
allowed the Christ to be banished from all the departments 
of human activity, except the home and the temple. 
Christ is not in the schools of the children, nor in the 
books we read, nor in the pictures and sculptures of our 
studios, nor in our architecture, even of the churches, 
nor in our journalism, any more than in the market-place 
and in the government. These things are purely pagan, 
or worthless composites. It looks as if the historian of 
these times, a century or two hence, will have hard work 
to fitly describe the Gesta Hibernicorum, when this 
principle of Christianity will have conquered the Amer- 
ican world as it conquered ancient Europe. I tell you, 
Owen,” and he strode to the window with hands out- 
stretched to the great building, “ in spite of all the 
shame and suffering endured for His sake, God has been 
very good to your people, He is heaping them with honors. 
As wide as is the power of England, it is no wider than the 
influence of the Irish faith. Stubborn heresy is doomed 
to fall before the truth which alone can set men free and 
keep them so.” 

Ledwith had begun to tremble, but he said never a word. 

“I am prouder to have had a share in the building of 
that temple,” Monsignor continued, “ than to have won a 
campaign against the English. This is a victory, not of 
one race over another, but of the faith over heresy, truth 


244 


over untruth. It will be the Christ-like glory of Ireland 
to give back to England one day the faith which a corrupt 
king destroyed, for which we have suffered crucifixion. 
No soul ever loses by climbing the cross with Christ. " 

Ledwith gave a sudden cry, and raised his hands to 
heaven, but grew quiet at once. 

The priest watched contentedly the spires of his ca- 
thedral. 

“ You have touched heart and reason together," Ho- 
nora whispered. 

Ledwith remained a long time silent, struggling with a 
new spirit. At last he turned the wide, frank eyes on his 
friend and victor. 

“ I am conquered, Monsignor." 

“ Not wholly yet, Owen." 

“ I have been a fool, a foolish fool, — not to have seen 
and understood." 

“ And your folly is not yet dead. You are dying in 
sadness and despair almost, when you should go to eternity 
in triumph." 

“ I go in triumph ! Alas ! if I could only be blotted out 
with my last breath, and leave neither grave nor memory, 
it would be happiness. Why do you say, ( triumph ’ ? " 

“Because you have been true to your country with the 
fidelity of a saint. That’s enough. Besides you leave 
behind you the son born of your fidelity to carry on your 
work " 

“ God bless that noble son," Owen cried. 

“ And a daughter whose prayers will mount from the 
nun’s cell, to bless your cause. If you could but go from 
her resigned ! " 

“ How I wish that I might. I ought to be happy, just 
for leaving two such heirs, two noble hostages to Ireland. 
I see my error. Christ is the King, and no man can 
better His plans for men. I surrender to Him.” 

“ But your submission is only in part. You are not 
wholly conquered." 

“Twice have you said that," Owen complained, raising 
his heavy eves in reproach. 

“ Love of country is not the greatest love." 

“No, love of the race, of humanity, is more." 

“ And the love of God is more than either. With all 
their beauty, what do these abstract loves bring us ? The 


245 


country we love can give us a grave and a stone. Human- 
ity crucifies its redeemers. Wolsey summed up the 
matter : ‘ Had I but served my God with half the zeal with 
which I served my king. He would not in mine age, have 
left me naked to mine enemies/ ” 

He paused to let his words sink into Ledwith’s mind. 

“ Owen, you are leaving the world oppressed by the 
hate of a lifetime, the hate ingrained in your nature, the 
fatal gift of persecutor and persecuted from the past.” 

“ And I shall never give that up,” Owen declared, 
sitting up and fixing his hardest look on the priest. “ I 
shall never forget Erin’s wrongs, nor Albion’s crimes. 1 
shall carry that just and honorable hate beyond the grave. 
Oh, you priests ! ” 

“ I said you were not conquered. You may hate in- 
justice, but not the unjust. You will find no hate in 
heaven, only justice. The persecutors and their victims 
have long been dead, and judged. The welcome of the 
wretched into heaven, the home of justice and love, wiped 
out all memory of suffering here, as it will for us all. The 
justice measured out to their tyrants even you would be 
satisfied with. Can your hate add anything to the joy of 
the blessed, or the woe of the lost P ” 

“Nothing,” murmured Owen from the pillow, as his 
eyes looked afar, wondering at that justice so soon to be 
measured out to him. “ You are again right. Oh, but 
we are feeble . . . . but we are foolish .... to think it. 
What is our hate any more than our justice .... both 
impotent and ridiculous.” 

There followed a long pause, then, for Monsignor had 
finished his argument, and only waited to control his own 
emotion before saying good-by. 

“ I die content,” said Ledwith with a long restful sigh, 
coming back to earth, after a deep look into divine power 
and human littleness. “ Bring me to-morrow, and often, 
the Lord of Justice. I never knew till now that in desir- 
ing Justice so ardently, it was He I desired. Monsignor, 
I die content, without hate, and without despair.” 

If ever a human creature had a foretaste of heaven it 
was Honora during the few weeks that followed this happy 
day. The bitterness in the soul of Owen vanished like a 
dream, and with it went regret, and vain longing, and the 
madness which at odd moments sprang from these emo* 


246 


tions. His martyrdom, so long and ferocious, would end 
in the glory of a beautiful sunset, the light of heaven in 
his heart, shining in his face. He lay forever beyond the 
fire of time and injustice. 

Every morning Honora prepared the little altar in the 
sick-room, and Monsignor brought the Blessed Sacrament. 
Arthur answered the prayers and gazed with awe upon the 
glorified face of the father, with something like anger upon 
the exalted face of the daughter ; for the two were gone 
suddenly beyond him. Every day certain books provided 
by Monsignor were read to the dying man by the daughter 
or the son ; describing the migration of the Irish all over 
the English-speaking world, their growth to consequence 
and power. Owen had to hear the figures of this growth, 
see and touch the journals printed by the scattered race, 
and to hear the editorials which spoke their success, their 
assurance, their convictions, their pride. 

Then he laughed so sweetly, so naturally, chuckled so 
mirthfully that Honora had to weep and thank God for 
this holy mirthfulness, which sounded like the spontane- 
ous, careless, healthy mirth of a boy. Monsignor came 
evenings to explain, interpret, put flesh and life into the 
reading of the day with his vivid and pointed comment. 
Ledwith walked in wonderland. “The hand of God is 
surely there,” was his one saying. The last day of his 
pilgrimage he had along private talk with Arthur. They 
had indeed become father and son, and their mutual tender- 
ness was deep. 

Honora knew from the expression of the two men that 
a new element had entered into her father’s happiness. 

“ I free you from your promise, my child,” said Led- 
with, “my most faithful, most tender child. It is the 
glory of men that the race is never without such children 
as you. You are free from any bond. It is my wish that 
you accept your release.” 

She accepted smiling, to save him from the stress of 
emotion. Then he wished to see the cathedral in the light 
of the afternoon sun, and Arthur opened the door of the 
sick-room. The dying man could see from his pillow the 
golden spires, and the shining roof, that spoke to him so 
wonderfully of the triumph of his race in a new land, the 
triumph which had been built up in the night, unseen, 
uncared for, unnoticed. 


247 


u God alone has the future,” he said. 

Once he looked at Honora, once more, with burning 
eyes, that never could look enough on that loved child. 
With his eyes on the great temple, smiling, he died. 
They thought he had fallen asleep in his weakness. Hon- 
ora took his head in her arms, and Arthur Dillon stood 
beside her and wept. 


248 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE FALL OF LIVINGSTONE. 

The ending of Quincy Livingstone’s career in England 
promised to "be like the setting of the sun: his glory 
fading on the hills of Albion only to burn with greater 
splendor in his native land : Chief Justice of the Supreme 
Court ! He needed the elevation. True, his career at 
court had been delightful, from the English point of view 
even brilliant ; the nobility had made much of him, if not 
as much as he had made of the nobility ; the members of 
the government had seriously praised him, far as they stood 
from Lord Constantine’s theory of American friendship. 
However pleasant these things looked to the Minister, of 
what account could they be to a mere citizen returning 
to private life in New York ? Could they make up for the 
failures of the past year at home, the utter destruction of 
his pet schemes for the restraint of the Irish in the land 
of the Puritans ? 

What disasters ! The alliance thrust out of considera- 
tion by the strong hand of Birmingham ; the learned 
Fritters chased from the platform by cold audiences, and 
then from the country by relentless ridicule ; Sister Claire 
reduced to the rank of a tolerated criminal, a ticket-of- 
leave girl ; and the whole movement discredited ! For- 
tunately these calamities remained unknown in London. 

The new honors, however, would hide the failure and 
the shame. His elevation was certain. The President 
had made known his intention, and had asked Minister 
Livingstone to be ready within a short time to sail for 
home for final consultation. His departure from the 
court of St. James would be glorious, and his welcome 
home significant ; afterwards his place would be amongst 
the stars. He owned the honorable pride that loves power 
and place, when these are worthy, but does not seek them. 
From the beginning the Livingstones had no need to run 


249 


after office. It always sought them, receiving as rich a 
lustre as it gave in the recognition of their worth. His 
heart grew warm that fortune had singled him out for 
the loftiest place in his country’s gift. To die chief-jus- 
tice atoned for life’s shortcomings. Life itself was at 
once steeped in the color and perfume of the rose. 

Felicitations poured in from the great. The simplic- 
ities of life suddenly put on a new charm, the common- 
places a new emphasis. My Lord Tomnoddy’s 4 how-de- 
do ’ was uttered with feeling, men took a second look at 
him, the friends of a season felt a warmth about their 
language, if not about the heart, in telling of his coming 
dignity. The government people shook off their natural 
drowsiness to measure the facts, to understand that emo- 
tion should have a share in uttering the words of fare- 
well. “Oh, my dear , dear Livingstone!” cried the 
Premier as he pressed his hand vigorously at their first 
meeting after the news had been given out. Society sang 
after the same fashion. Who could resist the delight of 
these things ? 

His family and friends exulted. Lovable and deep- 
hearted with them, harsh as he might be with opponents, 
their gladness gave him joy. The news spread among the 
inner circles with due reserve, since no one forgot the dis- 
tance between the cup and the lip ; but to intimates the 
appointment was said to be a certainty, and confirmation by 
the Senate as sure as anything mortal. Of course the Irish 
would raise a clamor, but no arm among them had length 
or strength enough to snatch away the prize. Not in many 
years had Livingstone dipped so deeply into the waters of 
joy as in the weeks that followed the advice from the Presi- 
dent. 

Arthur Dillon knew that mere opposition would not 
affect Livingstone’s chances. His position was too strong 
to be stormed, he learned upon inquiry in Washington. 
The political world was quiet to drowsiness, and the 
President so determined in his choice that candidates 
would not come forward to embarrass his nominee. The 
public accepted the rumor of the appointment with in- 
difference, which remained undisturbed when a second 
rumor told of Irish opposition. But for Arthur’s deter- 
mination the selection of a chief-justice would have been 
as dull as the naming of a consul to Algiers. 


250 


“ We can make a good fight,” was Grahame’s conclu- 
sion, “ but the field belongs to Livingstone.” 

“ Chance is always kind to the unfit,” said Arthur, 
“ because the Irish are good-natured.” 

“I don’t see the connection.” 

“ I should have said, because mankind is so. In this 
case Quincy gets the prize, because the Irish think he will 
get it.” 

“ You speak like the oracle,” said Grahame. 

“ Well, the fight must be made, a stiff one, to the last 
cartridge. But it won’t be enough, mere opposition. 
There must be another candidate. We can take Quincy 
in front ; the candidate can take him in the rear. It 
must not be seen, only said, that the President surrendered 
to Irish pressure. There’s the plan : well-managed op- 
position, and another candidate. We can see to the first, 
who will be the other ? ” 

They were discussing that point without fruit when 
Anne knocked at the door of the study, and entered in 
some anxiety. 

“Is it true, what I heard whispered,” said she, “that 
they will soon be looking for a minister to England, that 
Livingstone is coming back ? ” 

“ True, mother dear,” and he rose to seat her comfort- 
ably. “ But if you can find us a chief-justice the good 
man will not need to come back. He can remain to help 
keep patriots in English prisons.” 

“ Why I want to make sure, you know, is that Vander- 
velt should get the English mission this time without fail. 
I wouldn’t have him miss it for the whole world.” 

“There’s your man,” said Grahame. 

“ Better than the English mission, mother,” Arthur 
said quickly, “ would be the chief- justiceship for so good 
a man as Vandervelt. If you can get him to tell his 
friends he wants to be chief-justice, I can swear that he 
will get one place or the other. I know which one he 
would prefer. No, not the mission. That’s for a few 
years, forgotten honors. The other’s for life, lasting 
honor. Oh, how Vandervelt must sigh for that noble 
dais, the only throne in the Republic, the throne of Amer- 
ican justice. Think, how Livingstone would defile it ! 
The hater and persecutor of a wronged and hounded race, 
who begrudges us all but the honors of slavery, how could 


251 


he understand and administer justice, even among his 
own ? ” 

“ What are you raving about, Artie ? ” she complained. 
“I’ll get Vandervelt to do anything if it’s the right thing 
for him to do ; only explain to me what you want done.” 

He explained so clearly that she was filled with delight. 
With a quickness which astonished him, she picked up 
the threads of the intrigue ; some had their beginning 
five years back, and she had not forgotten. Suddenly 
the root of the affair bared itself to her : this son of hers 
was doing battle for his own. She had forgotten Living- 
stone long ago, and therefore had forgiven him. Arthur 
had remembered. Her fine spirit stirred dubious Gra- 
hame. 

“Lave Vandervelt to me,” she said, for her brogue 
came back and gently tripped her at times, “and do you 
young men look after Livingstone. I have no hard feel- 
ings against him, but, God forgive me, when I think of 
Louis Everard, and all that Mary suffered, and Honora, 
and the shame put upon us by Sister Claire, something 
like hate burns me. Anyway we’re not worth bein’ 
tramped upon, if we let the like of him get so high, when 
we can hinder it.” 

“Hurrah for the Irish !” cried Grahame, and the two 
cheered her as she left the room to prepare for her share 
of the labor. 

The weight of the work lay in the swift and easy form- 
ation of an opposition whose strength and temper would 
be concealed except from the President, and whose action 
would be impressive, consistent, and dramatic. The press 
was to know only what it wished to know, without provoca- 
tion. The main effort should convince the President of 
the unfitness of one candidate and the fitness of the 
other. # There were to be no public meetings or loud de- 
nunciations. What cared the officials for mere cries of 
rage ? Arthur found his task delightful, and he worked 
like a smith at the forge, heating, hammering, and shaping 
his engine of war. When ready for action, his mother 
had won Vandervelt, convinced him that his bid for the 
greater office would inevitably land him in either place. 
He had faith in her, and she had prophesied his future 
glory ! 

Languidly the journals gave out in due time the advent 


252 


of another candidate for the chief-justiceship, and also 
cloudy reports of Irish opposition to Livingstone. No 
one was interested but John Everard, still faithful to the 
Livingstone interest in spite of the gibes of Dillon and 
Grahame. The scheme worked so effectively that Arthur 
did not care to have any interruptions from this source. 
The leaders talked to the President singly, in the order of 
their importance, against his nominee, on the score of 
party peace. What need to disturb the Irish by naming 
a man who had always irritated and even insulted them ? 
The representation in the House would surely suffer by 
his action, because in this way only could the offended 
people retaliate. They detested Livingstone. 

Day after day this testimony fairly rained upon the Presi- 
dent, unanimous, consistent, and increasing in dignity with 
time, each protester seeming more important than he who 
just went out the door. Inquiries among the indifferent 
proved that the Irish would give much to see Livingstone 
lose the honors. And always in the foreground of the 
picture of protest stood the popular and dignified Vander- 
velt surrounded by admiring friends ! 

Everard had the knack of ferreting out obscure move- 
ments. When this intrigue was laid bare he found Arthur 
Dillon at his throat on the morning he had chosen for a 
visit to the President. To promise the executive support 
from a strong Irish group in the appointment of Living- 
stone would have been fatal to the opposition. Hence 
the look which Arthur bestowed on Everard was as ugly 
as his determination to put the marplot in a retreat for 
the insane, if no other plan kept him at home. 

is I want to defeat Livingstone,” said Arthur, “ and I 
think I have him defeated. You had better stay at home. 
You are hurting a good cause.” 

“ I am going to destroy that good cause,” John boasted 
gayly. “ You thought you had the field to yourself. And 
you had, only that I discovered your game.” 

“ IPs a thing to be proud of,” Arthur replied sadly, 
“ this steady support of the man who would have ruined 
your boy. Keep quiet. You’ve got to have the truth 
rammed down your throat, since you will take it in no 
other way. This Livingstone has been plotting against 
your race for twenty years. It may not matter to a dis- 
position as crooked as yours, that he opened the eyes of 


253 


English government people to the meaning of Irish ad- 
vance in America, that he is responsible for Fritters, for 
the alliance, for McMeeter, for the escaped nun, for her 
vile Confessio?is, for the kidnapping societies here. You 
are cantankerous enough to forget that he used his position 
in London to do us harm, and you won’t see that he will 
do as much with the justiceship. Let these things pass. 
If you were a good Catholic one might excuse your devotion 
to Livingstone on the score that you were eager to return 
good for evil. But you’re a half-cooked Catholic, John. 
Let that pass too. Have you no manhood left in you ? 
Are you short on self-respect ? This man brought out and 
backed the woman who sought to ruin your son, to break 
your wife’s heart, to destroy your own happiness. With 
his permission she slandered the poor nuns with tongue 
and pen, a vile woman hired to defile the innocent. And 
for this man you throw dirt on your own, for this man you 
are going to fight your own that he may get honors which 
he will shame. Isn’t it fair to think that you are going 
mad, Everard ?” 

“ Don’t attempt,” said the other in a fury, “ to work off 
your oratory on me. I am going to Washington to ex- 
pose your intrigues against a gentleman. What ! am 1 to 
tremble at your frown ? ” 

“ Rot, man ! Who asked you to tremble ? I saved your 
boy from Livingstone, and I shall save you from yourself, 
even if I have to put you in an asylum for the harmless in- 
sane. Don’t you believe that Livingstone is the patron of 
Sister Claire ? that he is indirectly responsible for that 
scandal ? ” 

“ I never did, and I never shall,” with vehemence. 
“ You are one of those that can prove anything ” 

“ If you were sure of his responsibility, would you go to 
Washington ?” 

“ Haven’t I the evidence of my own senses ? Were not 
all Livingstone’s friends on the committee which exposed 
Sister Claire ?” 

“ Because we insisted on that or a public trial, and they 
came with sour stomachs,” said Arthur, glad that he had 
begun to discuss the point. “ Would you go to Washing- 
ton if you were sure he backed the woman ?” 

Enough, young man. I’m off for the train. Here, 
Mary, my satchel ” 


254 


Two strong hawds were laid on his shoulders, he was 
pushed back into his chair, and the face which glowered 
on him after this astonishing violence for the moment 
stilled his rage and astonishment. 

“ Would you go to Washington if you were sure Living- 
stone backed Sister Claire ?” came the relentless question. 

“ No, I wouldn’t/’ he answered vacantly. 

“ Do you wish to be made sure of it ? ” 

He began to turn purple and to bluster. 

“Not a word,” said his master, “not a cry. Just an- 
swer that question. Do you wish to be made sure of this 
man’s atrocious guilt and your own folly ?” 

“I want to know what is the meaning of this,” Everard 
sputtered, “ this violence ? In my own house, in broad 
day, like a burglar.” 

“ Answer the question.” 

Alarm began to steal over Everard, who was by no means 
a brave man. Had Arthur Dillon, always a strange fellow, 
gone mad ? Or was this scene a hint of murder ? The 
desperate societies to which Dillon was said to belong often 
indulged in violence. It had never occurred to him before 
that these secret forces must be fighting Livingstone 
through Dillon. They would never permit him to use his 
influence at Washington in the Minister’s behalf. Dread- 
ful ! He must dissemble. 

“If you can make me sure, I am willing,” he said 
meekly. 

“ Read that, then,” and Arthur placed his winning card, 
as he thought, in his hands ; the private confession of 
Sister Claire as to the persons who had assisted her in her 
outrageous schemes ; and the chief, of course, was Living- 
stone. Everard read it with contempt. 

“ Legally you know what her testimony is worth,” said 
he. 

“ You accepted her testimony as to her own frauds, and 
so did the whole committee.” 

“We had to accept the evidence of our own senses.” 

Obstinate to the last was Everard. 

“You will not be convinced,” said Arthur rudely, “but 
you can be muzzled. I say again : keep away from Wash- 
ington, and keep your hands off my enterprise. You have 
some idea of what happens to men like you for interfering. 
If I meet you in Washington, or find any trace of your 


255 


meddling in the matter, here is what I shall do ; this 
whole scandal of the escaped nun shall be reopened, this 
confession shall be printed, and the story of Louis’ adven- 
ture, from that notable afternoon at four o’clock until his 
return, word for word, with portraits of his interesting 
family, of Sister Claire, all the details, will be given to 
the journals. Do you understand ? Meanwhile, study 
this problem in psychology : how long will John Everard 
be able to endure life after I tell the Irish how he helped 
to enthrone their bitterest enemy ?” 

He did not wait for an answer, but left the baffled man 
to wrestle with the situation, which must have worsted 
him, for his hand did not appear in the game at Washing- 
ton. Very smoothly the plans of Arthur worked to their 
climax. The friends of Vandervelt pressed his cause as 
urgently and politely as might be, and with increasing en- 
ergy as the embarrassment of the President grew. The 
inherent weakness of Vandervelt’s case appeared to the 
tireless Dillon more appalling in the last moments than at 
the beginning : the situation had no logical outcome. It 
was merely a question whether the President would risk a 
passing unpopularity. 

He felt the absence of Birmingham keenly, the one 
man who could say to the executive with authority, this 
appointment would be a blunder. Birmingham being 
somewhere on the continent, out of reach of appeals for 
help, his place was honorably filled by the General of the 
Army, with an influence, however, purely sentimental. 
Arthur accompanied him for the last interview with the 
President. Only two days intervened before the invitation 
would be sent to Livingstone to return home. The great 
man listened with sympathy to the head of the army making 
his protest, but would promise nothing ; he had fixed an 
hour however for the settlement of the irritating problem ; 
if they would call the next morning at ten, he would give 
them his unalterable decision. 

Feeling that the decision must be against his hopes, 
Arthur passed a miserable night prowling with Grahame 
about the hotel. Had he omitted any point in the fight ? 
Was there any straw afloat which could be of service ? 
Doyle used his gift of poetry to picture for him the return 
of Livingstone, and his induction into office ; the serenity 
of mind, the sense of virtue and patriotism rewarded, his 


256 


cold contempt of the defeated opposition and their candi- 
date, the matchless dignity, which would exalt Living- 
stone to the skies as the Chief-Justice. Their only con- 
solation was the fight itself, which had shaken for a mo- 
ment the edifice of the Minister’s fame. 

The details went to London from friends close to the 
President, and enabled Livingstone to measure the full 
strength of a young man’s hatred. The young man should 
be attended to after the struggle. There was no reason 
to lose confidence. While the factions were still worrying, 
the cablegram came with the request that he sail on 
Saturday for home, the equivalent of appointment. When 
reading it at the Savage Club, whither a special messeuger 
had followed him, the heavy mustache and very round 
spectacles of Birmingham rose up suddenly before him, 
and they exchanged greetings with the heartiness of exiles 
from the same land. The Minister remembered that his 
former rival had no share in the attempt to deprive him 
of his coming honors, and Birmingham recalled the rumor 
picked up that day in the city. 

“ I suppose there’s no truth in it,” he said. 

The Minister handed him the cablegram. 

“ Within ten days,” making a mental calculation, “ I 
should be on my way back to London, with the confirmation 
of the Senate practically secui’ed.” 

“ When it comes I shall be pleased to offer my con- 
gratulations,” Birmingham replied, and the remark 
slightly irritated Livingstone. 

Could he have seen what happened during the next few 
hours his sleep would have lost its sweetness. Birmingham 
went straight to the telegraph office, and sent a cipher 
despatch to his man of business, ordering him to see the 
President that night in Washington, and to declare in his 
name, with all the earnestness demanded by the situation, 
that the appointment of Livingstone would mean political 
death to him and immense embarrassment to his party for 
years. As it would be three in the morning before a reply 
would reach London, Birmingham went to bed with a good 
conscience. Thus, while the two young men babbled all 
night in the hotel, and thought with dread of the fatal 
hour next morning, wire, and train, and business man 
flew into the capital and out of it, carrying one man’s word 


257 


in and another man’s glory out, fleet, silent, unrecognized, 
unhonored, and unknown. 

At breakfast Birmingham read the reply from his 
business man with profound satisfaction. At breakfast 
the Minister read a second cablegram with a sudden 
recollection of Birmingham’s ominous words the night 
before. He knew that he would need no congratulations, 
for the prize had been snatched away forever. The cable- 
gram informed him that he should not sail on Saturday, 
and that explanations would follow. For a moment his 
proud heart failed him. Bitterness flowed in on him, so 
that the food in his mouth became tasteless. What did 
he care that his enemies had triumphed ? Or, that he had 
been overthrown ? The loss of the vision which had 
crowned his life, and made a hard struggle for what he 
thought the fit and right less sordid, even beautiful ; that 
was a calamity. 

He had indulged it in spite of mental protests against 
the dangerous folly. The swift imagination, prompted 
by all that was Livingstone in him, had gone over the 
many glories of the expected dignity ; the departure from 
beautiful and flattering England, the distinction of the 
return to his beloved native land, the splendid interval 
before the glorious day, the crowning honors amid the 
applause of his own, and the long sweet afternoon of life, 
when each day would bring its own distinction ! He had 
had his glimpse of Paradise. Oh, never, never would life be 
the same for him ! He began to study the reasons for his 
ill-success 

At ten o’clock that day the President informed the 
General of the Army in Mr. Dillon’s presence that he had 
sent the name of Hon. Van Rensselaer Vandervelt to the 
Senate for the position of Chief- Justice ! 

l 7 


258 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A PROBLEM OF DISAPPEARANCE. 

After patient study of the disappearance of Horace 
Endicott, for five years, Richard Curran decided to give 
up the problem. All clues had come to nothing. Hot 
the faintest trace of the missing man had been found. 
His experience knew nothing like it. The money earned 
in the pursuit would never repay him for the loss of self- 
confidence and of nerve, due to study and to ill success. 
But for his wife he would have withdrawn long ago from 
the search. 

“ Since you have failed,” she said, “ take up my theory. 
You will find that man in Arthur Dillon.” 

“ That’s the strongest reason forgiving up,” he replied. 
“ Once before I felt my mind going from insane eagerness 
to solve the problem. It would not do to have us both in 
the asylum at once.” 

“ I made more money in following my instincts, Dick, 
than you have made in chasing your theories. Instinct 
warned me years ago that Arthur Dillon is another than 
what he pretends. It warns me now that he is Horace 
Endicott. At least before you give up for good, have a 
shy at my theory.” 

“ Instinct ! Theory ! It is pure hatred. And the hate 
of a woman can make her take an ass for Apollo.” 

“ No doubt I hate him. Oh, how I hate that man. . . 
and young Everard. . .” 

“ Or any man that escapes you,” he filled in with sly 
malice. 

“Be careful, Dick,” she screamed at him, and he 
apologized. “ That hate is more to me than my child. 
It will grow big enough to kill him yet. But apart from 
hate, Arthur Dillon is not the man he seems. I could 
swear he is Horace Endicott. Remember all I have told 
you about*his return. He came back from California about 
the time Endicott disappeared. I was playing Edith 


259 


Conyngham then with great success, though not to 
crowded houses.” 

She laughed heartily at the recollection. 

“ I remarked to myself even then that Anne Dillon . . . 
she’s the choice hypocrite . . . did not seem easy in 
showing the letter which told of his coming back, how 
sorry he was for his conduct, how happy he would make 
her with the fortune he had earned.” 

“ All pure inference,” said Curran. “ Twenty men 
arrived home in New York about the same time with 
fortunes from the mines, and some without fortunes from 
the war.” 

“ Then how do you account for this, smart one ? Never 
a word of his life in California from that day to this. 
Mind that. No one knows, or seems to know, just where 
he had been, just how he got his money . . . you under- 
stand ... all the little bits o’ things that are told, and 
guessed, and leak out in a year. I asked fifty people, 
I suppose, and all they knew was : California. You’d 
think Judy Haskell knew, and she told me everything. 
What had she to tell ? that no one dared to ask him about 
such matters.” 

“ Dillon is a very close man.” 

“ Endicott had to be, among that long-tongued Irish 
crowd. I watched him. He was stupid at first . . . stuck 
to the house ... no one saw him for weeks . . . except 
the few. He listened and watched ... I saw him . . . 
his eyes and his ears ought to be as big as a donkey’s from 
it . . . and he said nothing. They made excuses for 
a thing that everyone saw and talked about. He was ill. 
I say he wanted to make no mistakes ; be was learning his 
part ; there was nothing of the Irish in him, only the sharp 
Yankee. It made me wonder for weeks what was wrong. 
He looked as much like the boy that ran away as you do. 
And then I had no suspicions, mind you. I believed Anne 
Dillon’s boy had come back with a fortune, and I was 
thinking how I could get a good slice of it.” 

“ And you didn’t get a cent,” Curran remarked. 

“ He hated me from the beginning. It takes one that 
is playing a part to catch another in the same business. 
After a while he began to bloom. He got more Irish 
than the Irish. There’s no Yankee living, no English- 
man, can play the Irishman. He can give a good imita- 


260 


tion maybe, d’ye hear ? That’s what Dillon gave. He did 
everything that young Dillon used to do before he left 
home ... a scamp he was too. He danced jigs, flattered 
the girls, chummed with the ditch-diggers and bar- 
keepers . . . and he hated them all, women and men. 
The Yankees hate the Irish as easy as they breathe. I tell 
you he had forgotten nothing that he used to do as a boy. 
And the fools that looked on said, oh, it’s easy to see he 
was sick, for now that he is well we can all recognize our 
old dare-devil, Arthur.” 

“ He’s dare-devil clear enough,” commented her hus- 
band. 

u First point you’ve scored,” she said with contempt. 
“ Horace Endicott was a milksop : to run away when he 
should have killed the two idiots. Dillon is a devil, as I 
ought to know. But the funniest thing was his dealings 
with his mother. She was afraid of him ... as much as 
I am . . . she is till this minute. Haven’t I seen her 
look at him, when she dared to say a sharp thing ? And 
she’s a good actress, mind you. It took her years to act 
as a mother can act with a son.” 

“ Quite natural, I think. He went away a boy, came 
back a rich man, and was able to boss things, having the 
cash.” 

“ You think ! You ! I’ve seen ten years of your thinking ! 
Well, I thought too. I saw a chance for cash, where I 
smelled a mystery. Do you know that he isn’t a Catholic ? 
Do yon know that he’s strange to all Catholic ways ? that 
he doesn’t know how to hear Mass, to kneel when he enters 
a pew, to bless himself when he takes the holy water at 
the door ? Do you know that he never goes to communion ? 
And therefore he never goes to confession. Didn’t I 
watch for years, so that I might find out what was wrong 
with him, and make some money ? ” 

“ All that’s very plausible,” said her husband. “ Only, 
there are many Catholics in this town, and in particular 
the Californians, that forgot as much as he forgot about 
their religion, and more.” 

“ But he is not a Catholic,” she persisted. “ There’s an 
understanding between him and Monsignor O’Donnell. 
They exchange looks when they meet. He visits the priest 
when he feels like it, but in public they keep apart. Oh, 
all round, that Arthur Dillon is the strangest fellow ; but 


261 


he plays his part so well that fools like you, Dick, are 
tricked.” 

“ You put a case well, Dearie. But it doesn’t convince 
me. However,” for he knew her whim must be obeyed, 
“ I don’t mind trying again to find Horace Endicott in 
this Arthur Dillon.” 

“And of course,” with a sneer, “ you’ll begin with the 
certainty that there’s nothing in the theory. What can 
the cleverest man discover, when he’s sure beforehand that 
there’s nothing to discover ? ” 

“ My word, Colette, if I take up the matter, I’ll con- 
vince you that you’re wrong, or myself that you’re right. 
And I’ll begin right here this minute. I believe with you 
that we have found Endicott at last. Then the first ques- 
tion I ask myself is : who helped Horace Endicott to be- 
come Arthur Dillon ? ” 

“ Monsignor O’Donnell of course,” she answered. 

“ Then Endicott must have known the priest before he 
disappeared : known him so as to trust him, and to get a 
great favor from him ? Now, Sonia didn’t know that 
fact.” 

“ That fool of a woman knows nothing, never did, never 
will,” she snapped. 

“ Well, for the sake of peace let us say he was helped 
by Monsignor, and knew the priest a little before he w T ent 
away. Monsignor helped him to find his present hiding- 
place ; quite naturally he knew Mrs. Dillon, how her son 
had gone and never been heard of : and he knew it would 
be a great thing for her to have a son with an income like 
Endicott’s. The next question is : how many people know 
at this moment who Dillon really is ? ” 

“Just two, sir. He’s a fox . . . they’re three foxes 
. . . Monsignor, Anne Dillon, and Arthur himself. I 
know, for I watched ’em all, his uncle, his friends, his old 
chums . . . the fellows he played with before he ran 
away . . . and no one knows but the two that had to 
know ... sly Anne and smooth Monsignor. They made 
the money that I wasn’t smart enough to get hold 
of.” 

“ Then the next question is : is it worth while to make 
inquiries among the Irish, his friends and neighbors, the 
people that knew the real Dillon ? ” 

u You won’t find out any more than I’ve told you, but 


262 


you may prove how little reason they have for accepting 
him as the boy that ran away.” 

“ After that it would be necessary to search California.” 

“ Poor Dick,” she interrupted with compassion, smooth- 
ing his beard. “ You are really losing your old cleverness. 
Search California ! Can’t you see yet the wonderful 
’cuteness of this man, Endicott ? He settled all that be- 
fore he wrote the letter to Anne Dillon, saying that her 
son was coming home. He found out the career of Arthur 
Dillon in California. If he found that runaway he sent 
him off to Australia with a lump of money, to keep out of 
sight for twenty years. Did the scamp need much per- 
suading ? I reckon not. He had been doing it for noth- 
ing ten years. Or, perhaps the boy was dead : then he 
had only to make the proper connections with his history 
up to the time of his death. Or he may have disappeared 
forever, and that made the matter all the simpler for Endi- 
cott. Oh, you’re not clever, Dick,” and she kissed him 
to sweeten the bitterness of the opinion. 

“I’m not convinced,” he said cheerfully. “Then tell 
me what to do.” 

“ I don’t know myself. Endicott took his money with 
him. Where does Arthur Dillon keep his money ? How 
did it get there ? Where was it kept before that ? How 
is he spending it just now ? Does he talk in his sleep ? 
Are there any mementoes of his past in his private boxes ? 
Could he be surprised into admissions of his real character 
by some trick, such as bringing him face to face on a sud- 
den with Sonia ? Wouldn’t that be worth seeing ? Just 
like the end of a drama. You know the marks on 
Endicott’s body, birthmarks and the like . . . are they 
on Dillon’s body ? The boy that ran away must have had 
some marks .... Judy Haskell would know . . . are 
they on Endicott’s body ? ” 

“You’ve got the map of the business in that pretty head 
perfect,” said Curran in mock admiration. “But don’t 
you see, my pet, that if this man is as clever as you would 
have him he has already seen to these things ? He has 
removed the birthmarks and peculiarities of Horace, and 
adopted those of Arthur ? You’ll find it a tangled busi- 
ness the deeper you dive into it.” 

“ Well, it’s your business to dive deeper than the tangle,” 
she answered crossly. “ If I had your practice ” 


263 


“ Yon would leave me miles behind, of course. Here’s 
the way I would reason about this thing : Horace Endi- 
cott is now known as Arthur Dillon ; he has left no track 
by which Endicott can be traced to his present locality ; 
but there must be a very poor connection between the 
Dillon at home and the real Dillon in California, in Aus- 
tralia, or in his grave ; if we can trace the real Arthur 
Dillon then we take away the foundations of his counter- 
feit. Do you see ? I say a trip to California and a clean 
examination there, after we have done our best here to 
pick flaws in the position of the gentleman who has been 
so cruel to my pet. He must gefhis punishment for that, 
I swear.” 

“ Ah, there’s the rub,” she whimpered in her childish 
way. “ I hate him, and I love him. He’s the finest fel- 
low in the world. He has the strength of ten. See how 
he fought the battles of the Irish against his own. One 
minute I could tear him like a wolf, and now I could let 
him tear me to pieces. You are fond of him too, Dick.” 

“ I would follow him to the end of the world, through 
fire and flood and fighting,” said the detective with feel- 
ing. “He loves Ireland, he loves and pities our poor 
people, he is spending his money for them. But I could 
kill him just the same for his cruelty to you. He’s a hard 
man, Colette.” 

“Now I know what you are trying to do,” she said 
sharply. “You think you can frighten me by telling me 
what I know already. Well, you can’t.” 

“No, no,” he protested, “I was thinking of another 
thing. We’ll come to the danger part later. There is one 
test of this man that ought to be tried before all others. 
When I have sounded the people about Arthur Dillon, and 
am ready for California, Sonia Endicott should be brought 
here to have a good look at him in secret first ; and then, 
perhaps, in the open, if you thought well of it.” 

“ Why shouldn’t I think well of it ? But will it do any 
good, and mayn’t it do harm ? Sonia has no brains. If 
you can’t see any resemblance between Arthur and the 
pictures of Horace Endicott, what can Sonia see ? ” 

“ The eyes of hate, and the eyes of love,” said he 
sagely. 

“Then I’d be afraid to bring them together,” she ad- 
mitted whimpering again, and cowering into his arms. “ If 


264 


he suspects I am hunting him down, he will have no 
pity.” 

“No doubt of it,” he said thoughtfully. “I have 
always felt the devil in him. Endicott was a fat, gay, 
lazy sport, that never so much as rode after the hounds. 
Now Arthur Dillon has had his training in the mines. 
That explains his dare-devil nature.” 

“ And Horace Endicott was betrayed by the woman he 
loved,” she cried with sudden fierceness. “ That turns a 
man sour quicker than all the mining-camps in the world. 
That made him lean and terrible like a wolf. That 
sharpened his teeth, and gave him a taste for woman's 
blood. That’s why he hates me.” 

“ You’re wrong again, my pet. He has a liking for 
you, but you spoil it by laying hands on his own. You 
saw his looks when he was hunting for young Everard.” 

“ Oh, how he frightens me,” and. she began to walk the 
room in a rage. “ How I would like to throw off this fear 
and face him and fight him, as I face you. I’ll do it if 
the terror kills me. I shall not be terrified by any man. 
You shall hunt him down, Dick Curran. Begin at once. 
When you are ready send for Sonia. I’ll bring them to- 
gether myself, and take the responsibility. What can he 
do but kill me ? ” 

Sadness came over the detective as she returned to her 
seat on his knee. 

“ He is not the kind, little girl,” said he, “that lays 
hands on a woman or a man outside of fair, free, open 
fight before the whole world.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” knowing very well what he 
meant. 

“If he found you on his trail,” with cunning delibera- 
tion, so that every word beat heart and brain like a ham- 
mer, “ and if he is really Horace Endicott, he would only 
have to give your character and your address ” 

“To the dogs,” she shrieked in a sudden access of horror. 

Then she lay very still in his arms, and the man 
laughed quietly to himself, sure that he had subdued her 
and driven her crazy scheme into limbo. The wild crea- 
ture had one dread and by reason of it one master. Never 
had she been so amenable to discipline as under Dillon’s 
remote and affable authority. Curran had no fear of con- 
sequences in studying the secret years of Arthur Dillon’s 


265 


existence. The study might reveal things which a young 
man preferred to leave in the shadows, but would not 
deliver up to Sonia her lost Horace ; and even if Arthur 
came to know what they were doing, he could smile at 
Edith’s vagaries. 

“ What shall we do ?” he ventured to say at last. 

“Find Horace Endicott in Arthur Dillon,” was the un- 
expected answer, energetic, but sighed rather than spoken. 
“ I fear him, I love him, I hate him, and I’m going to 
destroy him before he destroys me. Begin to-night.” 


266 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A FIRST TEST. 

Curran - could not study the Endicott problem. His 
mind had lost edge in the vain process, getting as confused 
over details as the experimenter in perpetual motion after 
an hundred failures. In favor of Edith he said to him- 
self that her instincts had always been remarkable, always 
helpful ; and her theory compared well with the twenty 
upon which he had worked years to no purpose. Since he 
could not think the matter out, he went straight on in 
the fashion which fancy had suggested. Taking it for 
granted that Dillon and Endicott were the same man, 
he must establish the connection ; that is, discover the 
moment when Horace Endicott passed from his own into 
the character of Arthur Dillon. 

Two persons would know the fact : Anne Dillon and 
her son. Four others might have knowledge of it ; Judy, 
the Senator, Louis, and Monsignor. A fifth might be 
added, if the real Arthur Dillon were still living in obscu- 
rity, held there by the price paid him for following his 
own whim. Others would hardly be in the secret. The 
theory was charming in itself, and only a woman like 
Edith, whose fancy had always been sportive, would have 
dreamed it. The detective recalled Arthur’s interest in 
his pursuit of Endicott ; then the little scenes on board 
the Arrow ; and grew dizzy to think of the man pursued 
comparing his own photograph with his present like- 
ness, under the eyes of the detective who had grown stale 
in the chase of him. 

He knew of incidents quite as remarkable, which had 
a decent explanation afterwards, however. He went about 
among the common people of Cherry Hill, who had known 
Arthur Dillon from his baptism, had petted him every 
week until he disappeared, and now adored him in his suc- 
cess. He renewed acquaintance with them, and heaped 


267 


them with favors. Loitering about in their idling places, 
he threw out the questions, hints, surmises, which might 
bring to the surface their faith in Arthur Dillon. He re- 
ported the result to Edith. 

“Not one of them ” said he, “but would go to court 
and swear a bushel of oaths that Arthur Dillon is the 
boy who ran away. They have their reasons too ; how 
he dances, and sings, and plays the fiddle, and teases the 
girls, just as he did when a mere strip of a lad ; how the 
devil was always in him for doing the thing that no one 
looked for ; how he had no fear of even the priest, or of 
the wildest horse ; and sought out terrible things to do 
and to dare, just as now he shakes up your late backers, 
bishops, ministers, ambassadors, editors, or plots against 
England ; all as if he earned a living that way.” 

She sneered at this bias, and bade him search deeper. 

It was necessary to approach the Senator on the matter. 
He secured from him a promise that their talk would re- 
main a secret, not only because the matter touched one 
very dear to the Senator, but also because publicity might 
ruin the detective himself. If the Senator did not care 
to give his word, there would be no talk, but his relative 
might also be exposed to danger. The Senator was always 
gracious with Curran. 

“ Do you know anything about Arthur’s history in 
California ? ” and his lazy eyes noted every change in the 
ruddy, handsome face. 

“Never asked him but one question about it. He an- 
swered that straight, and never spoke since about it. 
Nothing wrong, I hope ? ” the Senator answered with 
alarm. 

“ Lots, I guess, but I don’t know for sure. Here are 
the circumstances. Think them out for yourself. A 
crowd of sharp speculators in California mines bought a 
mine from Arthur Dillon when he was settling up his 
accounts to come home to his mother. As trouble arose 
lately about that mine, they had to hunt up Arthur Dillon. 
They send their agent to New York, he comes to Arthur, 
and has a talk with him. Then he goes back to his 
speculators, and declares to them that this Arthur 
Dillon is not the man who sold the mine. So the com- 
pany, full of suspicion, offers me the job of looking up 
the character of Arthur, and what he had been doing 


268 


these ten years. They say straight out that the real 
Arthur Dillon has been put out of the way, and that the 
man who is holding the name and the stakes here in New 
York is a fraud.” 

This bit of fiction. relieved the Senator’s mind. 

“ A regular cock-and-bull story,” said he with indig- 
nation. “ What’s their game ? Did you tell them what 
we think of Artie ? Would his own mother mistake him ? 
Or even his uncle ? If they’re looking for hurt, tell them 
they’re on the right road.” 

“ No, no,” said Curran, “ these are straight men. But 
if doubt is cast on a business transaction, they intend to 
clear it away. It would be just like them to bring suit 
to establish the identity of Arthur with the Arthur Dil- 
lon who sold them the mine. Now, Senator, could you 
go into court and swear positively that the young man 
who came back from California five years ago is the 
nephew who ran away from home at the age of fifteen ? ” 

“ Swear it till I turned blue ; why, it’s foolish, simply 
foolish. And every man, woman, and child in the dis- 
trict would do the same. Why don’t you go and talk 
with Artie about it ?” 

“ Because the company doesn’t wish to make a fuss 
until they have some ground to walk on,” replied Curran 
easily. “ When I tell them how sure the relatives and 
friends of Arthur are about his identity, they may drop 
the affair. But now, Senator, just discussing the thing 
as friends, you know, if you were asked in court why you 
were so sure Arthur is your nephew, what could you tell 
the court ? ” 

“ If the court asked me how I knew my mother was my 
mother ” 

“ That’s well enough, I know. But in this case Arthur 
was absent ten years, in which time you never saw him, 
heard of him, or from him.” 

“ Good point,” said the Senator musingly. “When 
Artie came home from California, he was sick, and I went 
to see him. He was in bed. Say, I’ll never forget it, 
Curran. I saw Pat sick once at the same age . . . Pat 
was his father, d’ye see ? . . . and here was Pat lying 
before me in the bed. I tell you it shook me. I never 
thought he’d grow so much like his father, though he 
has the family features. Know him to be Pat’s son ? 


269 


Why, if he told me himself he was any one else, I wouldn't 
believe him." 

Evidently the Senator knew nothing of Horace Endicott 
and recognized Arthur Dillon as his brother's son. The 
detective was not surprised ; neither was Edith at the daily 
report. 

“ There isn't another like him on earth," she said with 
the pride of a discoverer. “ Keep on until you find his 
tracks, here or in California." 

Curran had an interesting chat with Judy Haskell on a 
similar theme, but with a different excuse from that 
which roused the Senator. The old lady knew the detec- 
tive only as Arthur's friend. He approached her mys- 
teriously, with a story of a gold mine awaiting Arthur in 
California, as soon as he could prove to the courts that 
he was really Arthur Dillon. Judy began to laugh. 
“ Prove that he's Arthur Dillon ! Faith, an' long I'd wait 
for a gold mine if I had to prove I was Judy Haskell. 
How can any one prove themselves to be themselves, Mis- 
ther Curran ? Are the courts goin' crazy ?" 

The detective explained what evidence a court would 
accept as proof of personality. 

“ Well, Arthur can give that aisy enough," said she. 

“ But he won't touch the thing at all, Mrs. Haskell. 
He was absent ten years, and maybe he doesn't want that 
period ripped up in a court. It might appear that he had 
a wife, you know, or some other disagreeable thing might 
leak out. When the lawyers get one on the witness 
stand, they make hares of him." 

“ Sure enough," said Judy thoughtfully. Had she 
not suggested this very suspicion to Anne ? The young 
are wild, and even Arthur could have slipped from grace 
in that interval of his life. Curran hoped that Arthur 
could prove his identity without exposing the secrets of 
the past. 

“For example," said he smoothly, with an eye for 
Judy's expression, “ could you go to court to-morrow and 
swear that Arthur is the same lad that ran away from his 
mother fifteen years ago ? " 

“ I cud swear as manny oaths on that point as there are 
hairs in yer head," said Judy. 

“And what would you say, Mrs. Haskell, if the judge 
said to you : Now, madam, it's very easy for you to say you 


270 


know the young man to be the same person as the run- 
away boy ; but how do you know it ? what makes you 
think you know it ? ” 

“ I’d say he was purty sassy, indade. Of coorse I’d 
say that to meself, for ye can’t talk to a judge as aisy 
an’ free as to a lawyer. Well, I’d say mannv pleasant 
things. Arthur was gone tin years, but I knew him an’ 
he knew me the minute we set eyes on aich other. Then, 
agin, I knew him out of his father. He doesn’t favor 
the mother at all, for she’s light an’ he’s dark. There’s a 
dale o’ the Dillon in him. Then, agin, how manny things 
he tould me of the times we had together, an’ he even 
asked me if Teresa Flynn, his sweetheart afore he wint off, 
was livin’ still. Oh, as thrue as ye’re sittin’ there ! Poor 
thing, she was married. An’ he remembered how fond 
he was o’ rice puddin’ ice cold. An’ he knew Louis Eve- 
rard the minute he shtud forninst him in the door. But 
what’s the use o’ talkin’ ? I cud tell ye for hours all 
the things he said an’ did to show he was Arthur Dillon.” 

“ Has he any marks on his body that would help to 
identify him, if he undertook to get the gold mine that 
belongs to him ? ” 

“ Artie had only wan mark on him as a boy ... he was 
the most spotless child I ever saw. . . an’ that was a mole 
on his right shoulder. He tuk it wid him to California, an’ 
he brought it back, for I saw it meself in the same spot while 
he was sick, an’ I called his attintion to it, an’ he was much 
surprised, for he had never thought of it wanst.” 

“ It’s my opinion,” said Curran solemnly, “ that he can 
prove his identity without exposing his life in the west. 
I hope to persuade him to it. Maybe the photographs of 
himself and his father would help. Have you any copies 
of them ? ” 

“ There’s jist two. I wudn’t dare to take thim out of 
his room, but if ye care to walk up-stairs, Mr. Curran, an’ 
Ink at thim there, ye’re welcome. He an’ his mother are 
away the night to a gran’ ball.” 

They entered Arthur’s apartments together, and Judy 
showed the pictures of Arthur Dillon as a boy of fourteen, 
and of his youthful father ; old daguerreotypes, but faith- 
ful and clear as a likeness. Judy rattled on for an hour, 
but the detective had achieved his object. She had no 
share in the secret. 


271 


Arthur Dillon was his father’s son, for her. He studied 
the pictures, and carefully examined the rooms, his admira- 
tion provoking Judy into a display of their beauties. With 
the skill and satisfaction of an artist in man-hunting, he 
observed how thoroughly the character of the young man 
displayed itself in the trifles of decoration and furnish- 
ing. 

The wooden crucifix with the pathetic figure in bronze 
on the wall over the desk, the holy water stoup at the 
door, carved figures of the Holy Family, a charming group, 
on the desk, exquisite etchings of the Christ and the 
Madonna after the masters, a prie-dieu in the inner room 
with a group of works of devotion : and Edith had declared 
him no Catholic. Here was the refutation. 

“ He is a pious man,” -Curran said. 

“ And no wan sees it but God and himself. So much 
the betther, I say,” Judy remarked. “ Only thim that 
had sorra knows how to pray, an’ he prays like wan that 
had his fill of it.” 

The tears came into the man’s eyes at the indications of 
Arthur’s love for poor Erin. Hardness was the mark of 
Curran, and sin had been his lifelong delight ; but for 
his country he had kept a tenderness and devotion that 
softened and elevated his nature at times. Of little use 
and less honor to his native land, he felt humbled in this 
room, whose books, pictures, and ornaments revealed 
thought and study in behalf of a harried and wretched 
people, yet the student was not a native of Ireland. It 
seemed profane to set foot here, to spy upon its holy pri- 
vacy. He felt glad that its details gave the lie so emphat- 
ically to Edith’s instincts. 

The astonishing thing was the absence of Californian 
relics and mementoes. Some photographs and water 
colors, whose names Curran mentally copied for future 
use, pictured popular scenes on the Pacific slope ; but 
they could be bought at any art store. Surely his life in 
the mines, with all the luck that had come to him, must 
have held some great bitterness, that he never spoke of it 
casually, and banished all remembrances. 

That would come up later, but Curran had made up his 
mind that no secret of Arthur’s life should ever see the 
light because he found it. Not even vengeful Edith, and 
she had the right to hate her enemy, should wring from 


272 


him any disagreeable facts in the lad’s career. So deeply 
the detective respected him ! 

In the place of honor, at the foot of his bed, where his 
eyes rested on them earliest and latest, hung a group of 
portraits in oil, in the same frame, of Louis the beloved, 
from his babyhood to the present time : on the side wall 
hung a painting of Anne in her first glory as mistress of 
the new home in Washington Square ; opposite, Monsignor 
smiled down in purple splendor ; two miniatures contained 
the grave, sweet, motherly face of Mary Everard and the 
auburn hair and lovely face of Mona. 

“ These are the people he loves,” said Curran with emo- 
tion. 

“Ay, indade,” Judy said tenderly, “an’ did ever a wild 
boy like him love his own more ? Night an’ day his wan 
thought is of them. The sun rises an’ sets for him behind 
that picther there,” pointing to Louis’ portraits. “ If 
annythin’ had happened to that lovely child last Spring he’d 
a-choked the life out o’ wan woman wid his own two hands. 
He’s aisy enough, God knows, but Ed rather jump into 
the say than face him when the anger is in him.” 

“He’s a terrible man,” said Curran, repeating Edith’s 
phrase. 

He examined some manuscript in Arthur’s handwriting. 
How different from the careless scrawl of Horace Endicott 
this clear, bold, dashing script, which ran full speed across 
the page, yet turned with ease and leisurely from the 
margin. What a pity Edith could not see with her own 
eyes these silent witnesses to the truth. Beyond the study 
was a music-room, where hung his violin over some scat- 
tered music. Horace Endicott hated the practising of the 
art, much as he loved the opera. It was all very sweet, 
just what the detective would have looked for, beautiful 
to see. He could have lingered in the rooms and spec- 
ulated on that secret and manly life, whose currents were 
so feebly but shiningly indicated in little things. It oc- 
curred to him that copies of the daguerreotypes, Arthur 
at fourteen and his father at twenty-five, would be of serv- 
ice in the search through California. He spoke of it to 
Judy. 

“ Sure that was done years ago,” said Judy cautiously. 
“Anne Dillon wouldn’t have it known for the world, ye 
see, but I know that she sint a thousand o’ thim to the 


273 


polis in California ; an* that’s the way she kem across the 
lad. Whin he found his mother shtill mournin’ him, he 
wrote to her that he had made his pile an’ was cornin’ 
home. Anne has the pride in her, an’ she wants all the 
world to believe he kem home of himself, d’ye see ? Now 
kape that a secret, mind.” 

“ And do you never let on what I’ve been telling you,” 
said Curran gravely. “ It may come to nothing, and it 
may come to much, but we must be silent.” 

She had given her word, and Judy’s word was like the 
laws of the Medesand Persians. Curran rejoiced at the in- 
cident of the daguerreotypes, which anticipated his pro- 
posed search in California. Vainly however did he describe 
the result of his inquiry for Edith. She would have none 
of his inferences. He must try to entrap Anne Dillon 
and the priest, and afterwards he might scrape the surface 
of California. 


274 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE NERVE OF ANNE. 

Curran laid emphasis in liis account to his wife on the 
details of Arthur’s rooms, and on the photographs which 
had helped to discover the lost boy in California. Edith 
laughed at him. 

“ Horace Endicott invented that scheme of the photo- 
graphs,” said she. “ The dear clever boy ! If he had 
been the detective, not a stupid like you ! I saw Arthur 
Dillon in church many times in four years, and I tell you 
he is not a Catholic born, no matter what you saw in his 
rooms. He’s playing the part of Arthur Dillon to the last 
letter. Don’t look at me that way, Dick, or I’ll scratch 
your face. You want to say that I am crazy over this theory, 
and that I have an explanation ready for all your objec- 
tions.” 

“ I have nothing to say, I am jnst working on your 
lines, dearie,” he replied humbly. 

“ Just now your game is busy with an affair of the heart. 
He won’t be too watchful, unless, as I think, he’s on our 
tracks all the time. You ought to get at his papers.” 

“ A love affair ! Our tracks ! ” Curran repeated in con- 
fusion. 

“ Do you think you can catch a man like Arthur nap- 
ping ? ” she sneered. “ Is there a moment in the last four 
years that he has been asleep ? See to it that you are not 
reported to him every night. But if he is in love with 
Honora Led with, there’s a chance that he won’t see or care 
to see what you are doing. She’s a lovely girl. A hint of 
another woman would settle his chances of winning her. 
I can give her that. I’d like to. A woman of her stamp 
has no business marrying.” 

She mused a few minutes over her own statements, 
while Curran stared. He began to feel that the threads 
of this game were not all in his hands. 


275 


“ You must now go to the priest and Anne Dillon,” she 
resumed, “ and say to them plump . . . take the priest first 
. . . say to them plump before they can hold their faces 
in shape : do you know Horace Endicott ? Then watch 
the faces, and get what you can out of them.” 

“ That means you will have Arthur down on you next 
day.” 

“ Sure,” catching her breath. “ But it is now near 
the end of the season. When he comes to have it out 
with me, he will find himself face to face with Sonia. If 
it’s to be a fight, he’ll find a tiger. Then we can run away 
to California, if Sonia says so.” 

“ You are going to bring Sonia down, then ? ” 

“ You suggested it. Lemme tell you what you’re going 
to find out to-day. You’re going to find out that Monsig- 
nor knew Horace Endicott. After that I think it would 
be all right to bring down Sonia.” 

Little use to argue with her, or with any woman for that 
matter, once an idea lodged so deep in her brain. He 
went to see Monsignor, with the intention of being candid 
with him : in fact there was no other way of dealing with 
the priest. In his experience Curran had found no class so 
difficult to deal with as the clergy. They were used to keep- 
ing other people’s secrets as well as their own. He did not 
reveal his plan to Edith, because he feared her criticism, and 
could not honestly follow her methods. He had not, with 
all his skill and cunning, her genius for ferreting. 

Monsignor, acquainted with him, received him coldly. 
Edith’s instructions were, ask the question plump, watch 
his face, and then run to Anne Dillon before she can be 
warned by the Monsignor’s messenger. Looking into the 
calm, well-drilled countenance of the priest, Curran found 
it impossible to surprise him so uncourteously. Anyway 
the detective felt sure that there would be no surprise, 
except at the mere question. 

“ I would like to ask you a question, Monsignor,” said 
Curran smoothly, “ which I have no right to ask perhaps. 
I am looking for a man who disappeared some time ago, 
and the parties interested hope that you can give some in- 
formation. You can tell me if the question is at all im- 
pertinent, and I will go. Do you know Horace Endicott ? ” 

There was no change in the priest’s expression or 
manner, no starting, no betrayal of feeling. Keeping his 


276 


eyes on the detective’s face, he repeated the name as one 
utters a half-forgotten thing. 

“ Why has that name a familiar sound ? ” he asked him- 
self. 

“ You may have read it frequently in the papers at the 
time Horace Endicott disappeared,” Curran suggested. 

“ Possibly, but I do not read the journals so carefully,” 
Monsignor answered musingly. “ Endicott, Endicott . . . 
I have it . . . and it brings to my mind the incident of the 
only railroad wreck in which I have ever had the misfor- 
tune to be . . . only this time it was good fortune for one 
poor man.” 

Very deliberately he told the story of the collision and 
of his slight acquaintance with the young fellow whose 
name, as well as he could remember, was Endicott. The 
detective handed him a photograph of the young man. 

“ How clearly this picture calls up the whole scene,” 
said Monsignor much pleased. “This is the very boy. 
Have you a copy of this ? Ho send me one.” 

“ You can keep that,” said Curran, delighted at his prog- 
ress, astonished that Edith’s prophecy should have come 
true. Naturally the next question would be, have you seen 
the young man since that time ? and Curran would have 
asked it had not the priest broken in with a request for the 
story of his disappearance. It was told. 

“ Of course I shall be delighted to give what information 
I possess,” said Monsignor. “ There was no secret about 
him then . . . many others saw him ... of course this must 
have been some time before he disappeared. But let me ask 
a question before we go any further. How did you suspect 
my acquaintance with a man whom I met so casually ? 
The incident had almost faded from my mind. In fact I 
have never mentioned it to a soul.” 

“ It was a mere guess on the part of those interested in 
finding him.” 

“ Still the guess must have been prompted by some theory 
of the search.” 

“ I am almost ashamed to tell it,” Curran said uneasily. 
“The truth is that my employers suspect that Horace 
Endicott has been hiding for years under the character of 
Arthur Dillon.” 

Monsignor looked amazed for a moment and then 
laughed. 


277 


“ Interesting for Mr. Dillon and his friends, particularly 
if this Endicott is wanted for any crime . . .” 

“ Oh, no, no/’ cried the detective. “It is his wife who 
is seeking him, a perfectly respectable man, you know . . . 
it’s a long story. We have chased many a man supposed 
to be Endicott, and Mr. Dillon is the latest. I don’t 
accept the theory myself. I know Dillon is Dillon, but a 
detective must sift the theories of his employers. In fact 
my work up to this moment proves very clearly that of all 
our wrong chases this is the worst.” 

“It looks absurd at first sight. I remember the time 
poor Mrs. Dillon sent out her photographs, scattered a few 
hundred of them among the police and the miners of 
California, in the hope of finding her lost son. That 
was done with my advice. She had her first response, a 
letter from her son, about the very time that I met young 
Endicott. For the life of me I cannot understand why 
anyone should suppose Arthur Dillon . . . .” 

He picked up the photograph of Endicott again. 

“ The two men look as much alike as I look like you. 
I’m glad you mentioned the connection which Dillon has 
with the matter. You will kindly leave me out of it until 
you have made inquiries of Mr. Dillon himself. It would 
not do, you understand, for a priest in my position to give 
out any details in a matter which may yet give trouble. I 
fear that in telling you of my meeting with Endicott I 
have already overstepped the limits of prudence. However, 
that was my fault, as you warned me. Thanks for the 
photograph, a very nice souvenir of a tragedy. Poor 
young fellow ! Better had he perished in the smash-up 
than to go out of life in so dreary a way.” 

“ If I might venture another ” 

“ Pardon, not another word. In any official and public 
way I am always ready to tell what the law requires, or 
charity demands.” 

“ You would be willing then to declare that Arthur 
Dillon ” 

“ Is Mrs. Dillon’s son ? Certainly ... at any time, 
under proper conditions. Good morning. Don’t mention 
it,” and Curran was outside the door before his thoughts 
took good shape ; so lost in wonder over the discovery of 
Monsignor’s acquaintance with Endicott, that he forgot to 
visit Anne Dillon. Instead he hurried home with the news 


278 


to Edith, and blushed with shame when she asked if he 
had called on Anne. She forgave his stupidity in her de- 
light, and put him through his catechism on all that had 
been said and seen in the interview with Monsignor. 

“ You are a poor stick,” was her comment, and for the 
first time in years he approved of her opinion. “ The 
priest steered you about and out with his little finger, and 
the corner of his eye. He did not give you a chance to 
ask if he had ever seen Horace Endicott since. Monsig- 
nor will not lie for any man. He simply refuses to answer 
on the ground that his position will not permit it. You 
will never see the priest again on this matter. Arthur 
Dillon will bid you stand off. Well, you see what my in- 
stinct is now ! Are you more willing to believe in it when 
it says : Arthur Dillon is Horace Endicott ? ” 

“Not a bit, sweetheart.” 

“ 1 won’t fight with you, since you are doing as I order. 
Go to Anne Dillon now. Mind, she’s already prepared by 
this time for your visit. You may run against Arthur in- 
stead of her. While you are gone I shall write to Sonia 
that we have at last found a clue, and ask her to come on 
at once. Dillon may not give us a week to make our es- 
cape after he learns what we have been doing. We must 
be quick. Go, my dear old stupid, and bear in mind that 
Anne Dillon is the cuuningest cat you’ve had to do with 
yet.” 

She gave an imitation of the lady that was funny to a 
degree, and sent the detective off laughing, but not at all 
convinced that there was any significance Tn his recent dis- 
covery. He felt mortified to learn again for the hundredth 
time how a prejudice takes the edge off intellect. Though 
certain Edith’s theory was wrong, why should he act like a 
donkey in disproving it ? On the contrary his finest skill 
was required, and methods as safe as if Dillon were sure 
to turn out Endicott. He sharpened his blade for the 
coming duel with Anne, whom Monsignor had warned, 
without doubt. However, Anne had received no warning 
and she met Curran with her usual reserve. He was 
smoothly brutal. 

“ I would like to know if you are acquainted with Mr. 
Horace Endicott ? ” said he. 

Anne’s face remained as blank as the wall, and her manner 
tranquil. She had never heard uie name before, for in 


279 


the transactions between herself and her son only the name 
of Arthur Dillon had been mentioned, while of his previ- 
ous life she knew not a single detail. Curran, not disap- 
pointed, hastened, after a pause, to explain his own rude- 
ness. 

“ I never heard the name,” said Anne coldly. “Nor do 
I see by what right you come here and ask questions.” 

“ Pardon my abruptness,” said the detective. “ I am 
searching for a young man who disappeared some years 
ago, and his friends are still hunting for him, still anxious, 
so that they follow the most absurd clues. I am forced 
to ask this question of all sorts of people, only to get the 
answer which you have given. I trust you will pardon me 
for my presumption for the sake of people who are suffer- 
ing.” 

His speech warned her that she had heard her son’s 
name for the first time, that she stood on the verge of ex- 
posure ; and her heart failed her, she felt that her voice 
would break if she ventured to speak, her knees give way 
if she resented this man’s manner by leaving the room. 
Yet the weakness was only for a moment, and when it 
passed a wild curiosity to hear something of that past 
which had been a sealed book to her, to know the real per- 
sonality of Arthur Dillon, burned her like a flame, and 
steadied her nerves. For two years she had been resent- 
ing his secrecy, not understanding his reasons. He was 
guarding against the very situation of this moment. 

“Horace Endicott,” she repeated with interest. 
“ There is no one of that name in my little circle, and I 
have never heard the name before. Who was he ? And 
how did he come to be lost ? ” 

And she rose to indicate that his reply must be brief. 

Curran told with eloquence of the disappearance and the 
long search, and gave a history of Endicott’s life in nice 
detail, pleased with the unaffected interest of this severe 
but elegant woman. As he spoke his eye took in every 
mark of feeling, every gesture, every expression. Her 
self-command, if she knew Horace Endicott, remained 
perfect ; if she knew him not, her manner seemed natural. 

“ God pity his poor people,” washer fervent comment 
as she took her seat again. “ I was angry with you at 
first, sir,” looking at his card, “ and of a mind to send you 
away for what looked like impertinence. But it’s I would 


230 


be only too glad to give you help if I could. I never even 
heard the young man’s name. And it puzzles me, why 
you should come to me.” 

“For this reason, Mrs. Dillon,” he said with sincere 
disgust. “ The people who are hunting for Horace Endi- 
cott think that Arthur Dillon is the man ; or to put it in 
another way, that you were deceived when you welcomed 
back your son from California. Horace Endicott and not 
Arthur Dillon returned.” 

“ My God ! ” cried she, and sat staring at him ; then 
rose up and began to move towards the door backwards, 
keeping an eye upon him. Her thought showed clear to 
the detective : she had been entertaining a lunatic. He 
laughed. 

“ Don’t go,” he said. “ I know what you imagine, but 
I’m no lunatic. I don’t believe that your son is an im- 
postor. He is a friend of mine, and I know that he is 
Arthur Dillon. But a man in my business must do as he 
is ordered by his employers. I am a detective.” 

For a minute she hesitated with hand outstretched to the 
bell-rope. Her mind acted with speed ; she had nothing 
to fear, the man was friendly, his purpose had failed, what- 
ever it was, the more he talked the more she would learn, 
and it might be in her power to avert danger by policy. 
She went back to her seat, having left it only to act her 
part. Taking the hint provided by Curran, she pre- 
tended belief in his insanity, and passed to indignation at 
this attempt upon her happiness, her motherhood. This 
rage became real, when she reflected that the Aladdin 
palace of her life was really threatened by Curran’s em- 
ployers. To her the prosperity and luxury of the past five 
years had always been dream-like in its fabric, woven of 
the mists of morning, a fairy enchantment, which might 
vanish in an hour and leave poor Cinderella sitting on a 
pumpkin by the roadside, the sport of enemies, the burden 
of friends. How near she had been to this public humilia- 
tion ! What wretches, these neople who employed the de- 
tective ! 

“ My dear boy was absent ten years,” she said, “and I 
suffered agony all that time. What hearts must some 
people have to wish to put me through another time like 
that ! Couldn’t any wan see that I accepted him as my 
son ? that all the neighbors accepted him ? What could 


281 


a man want to deceive a poor mother so ? I had nothing 
to give him but the love of a mother, and men care little 
for that, wild boys care nothing for it. He brought me a 
fortune, and has made my life beautiful ever since he 
came back. I had nothing to give him. Who is at the 
bottom of this thing ? ” 

The detective explained the existence and motives of a 
deserted, poverty-stricken wife and child. 

“ I knew a woman would be at the bottom of it,” she 
exclaimed viciously, feeling against Sonia a hatred which 
she knew to be unjust. “ Well, isn’t she able to recognize 
her own husband ? If I could tell my son after ten years, 
when he had grown to be a man, can’t she tell her own 
husband after a few years ? Could it be that my boy 
played Horace Endicott in Boston and married that 
w’oman, and then came back to me ? ” 

“ Oh, my dear Mrs. Dillon,” cried the detective in 
alarm, “do not excite yourself over so trifling a thing. 
Your son is your son no matter what our theories may 
be. This Endicott was born and brought up in the 
vicinity of Boston, and came from a very old family. 
Your suspicion is baseless. Forget the whole matter I 
beg of you.” 

“ Have you a picture of the young man ?” 

He handed her the inevitable photograph reluctantly, 
quite sure that she would have hysterics before he left, so 
sincere was her excitement. Anne studied the portrait 
with keen interest, it may be imagined, astonished to find 
it so different from Arthur Dillon. Had she blundered as 
well as the detective ? Between this portrait and any of 
the recent photographs of Arthur there seemed no ap- 
parent resemblance in any feature. She had been excit- 
ing herself for nothing. 

“ Wonderful are the ways of men,” was her comment. 
“How any one . . .” her brogue had left her . . . “'could 
take Arthur Dillon for this man, even supposing he was 
disguised now, is strange and shameful. What is to be 
the eud of it ? ” 

“Just this, dear madam,” said Curran, delighted at her 
returning calmness. “ I shall tell them what you have 
said, what every one says, and they’ll drop the inquiry as 
they have dropped about one hundred others. If they are 
persistent, I shall add that you are ready to go into any 


282 


court in the land and swear positively that you know your 
own son.” 

“ Into twenty courts,” she replied with fervor, and the 
tears, real tears came into her eyes ; then, at sight of 
Aladdin’s palace as firm as ever on its frail foundations, 
the tears rolled down her cheeks. 

“ Precisely. And now if you would be kind enough to 
keep this matter from the ears of Mr. Dillon . . . he’s a 
great friend of mine ... I admire him ... I was with 
him in the little expedition to Ireland, you know . . . and 
it was to save him pain that I came to you first ... if it 
could be kept quiet ” 

“ I want it kept quiet,” she said with decision, “ but at 
the same time Arthur must know of these cruel suspicions. 
Oh, how my heart beats when I think of it ! Without 
him ten years, and then to have strangers plan to take 
him from me altogether . . . forever . . . forever . . . oh ! ” 

Curran perspired freely at the prospect of violent 
hysterics. No man could deal more rudely with the weak 
and helpless with right on his side, or if his plans de- 
manded it. Before a situation like this he felt lost and 
foolish. 

“ Certainly he must know in time. I shall tell him my- 
self, as soon as I make my report of the failure of this 
clue to my employers. I would take it as a very great 
favor if you would permit me to tell him. It must come 
very bitter to a mother to tell her son that he is suspected 
of not being her son. Let me spare you that anguish.” 

Anne played with him delightfully, knowing that she 
had him at her mercy, not forgetting however that the 
sport was with tigers. Persuaded to wait a few days while 
Curran made his report, in return he promised to in- 
form her of the finding of poor Endicott at the proper 
moment. The detective bowed himself out, the lady 
smiled. A fair day’s work ! She had learned the name 
and the history of the young man known as Arthur Dillon 
in a most delightful way. The doubt attached to this 
conclusion did not disturb her. Wonderful, that Arthur 
Dillon should look so little like the portrait of Horace 
Endicott ! More wonderful still that she, knowing 
Arthur was not her son, had come to think of him, to feel 
towards him, and to act accordingly, as her son ! Her 
rage over this attempt upon the truth and the fact of their 
relationship grew to proportions. 


283 


CHAPTEK XXX. 

UNDER THE EYES OF HATE. 

Edith’s inference from the interviews with the Monsig- 
nor and Anne did justice to her acuteness. The priest alone 
knew the true personality of Arthur. From Anne all but 
the fact of his disappearance had been kept, probably to 
guard against just such attempts as Curran’s. The de- 
tective reminded her that her theory stood only because 
of her method of selection from his investigations. Nine 
facts opposed and one favored her contention : therefore 
nine were shelved, leaving one to support the edifice of 
her instincts or her suspicions. She stuck out her tongue 
at him. 

“ It shows how you are failing when nine out of ten 
facts, gathered in a whole day’s work, are worthless. Isn’t 
that one fact, that the priest knew Horace Endicott, 
worth all your foolish reasonings ? Who discovered it ? 
Now, will you coax Sonia Endicott down here to have a 
look at this Arthur Dillon ? Before we start for Cali- 
fornia ? ” 

He admitted humbly that the lady would not accept his 
invitation, without stern evidence of a valuable clue. The 
detectives had given her many a useless journey. 

“ She’ll be at the Everett House to-morrow early in the 
morning,” said Edith proudly. “ Want to know why, 
stupid ? I sent her a message that her game had been 
treed at last ... by me.” 

He waved his hands in despair. 

“ Then you’ll do the talking, Madam Mischief.” 

iC And you’ll never say a word, even when asked. What ! 
would I let you mesmerize her at the start by telling her 
how little you think of my idea and my plans ? She 
would think as little of them as you do, when you got 
through. No ! I shall tell her, I shall plan for her, I 
shall lead her to the point of feeling where that long ex- 
perience with Horace Endicott will become of some use in 


284 


piercing the disguise of Arthur Dillon. You would con- 
vince her she was not to see Horace Endicott, and of 
course she would see only Arthur Dillon. I’ll convince 
her she is to see her runaway husband, and then if she 
doesn’t I’ll confess defeat.” 

“ There’s a good deal in your method,” he admitted in 
a hopeless way. 

“ We are in for it now,” she went on, scorning the com- 
pliment. “ By this time Arthur Dillon knows, if he did 
not before, that I am up to mischief. He may fall on us 
any minute. He will not suffer this interference : not 
because he cares two cents one way or the other, but be- 
cause he will not have us frightening his relatives and 
friends, telling every one that he is two. Keep out of his 
way so that he shall have to come here, and to send word 
first that he is coming. I’ll arrange a scene for him with 
his Sonia. It may be sublime, and again it may be a 
fizzle. One way or the other, if Sonia says so, we’ll fly to 
the west out of his way. The dear, dear "boy ! ” 

“ He’ll dear yon after that scene ! ” 

“Now, do you make what attempts you may to find out 
where he keeps his money, he must have piles of it, and 
search his papers, his safe ...” 

“ He has nothing of the kind . . . everything about 
him is as open as the day . . . it’s an impertinence to 
bother him so . . . well, he can manage yon, 1 think . . . 
no need for me to interfere or get irritated.” 

Then she had a tantrum, which galled the soul of Cur- 
ran, except that it ended as usual in her soft whimpering, 
her childish murmuring, her sweet complaint against the 
world, and her falling asleep in his arms. Thus was he 
regularly conquered and led captive. 

They went next day at noon to visit Sonia Endicott at 
the Everett House, where she had established herself with 
her little boy and his nurse. Her reception of the Cur- 
rans, while supercilious in expression, was really sincere. 
They represented her hope in that long search of five 
years, which only a vigorous hate had kept going. 
Marked with the characteristics of the cat, velvety to eye 
and touch, insolent and elusive in her glance, undis- 
ciplined, she could act a part for a time. To Horace 
Endicott she had played the role of a child of light, an 
elf, a goddess, for which nature had dressed her with 


285 

golden hair, melting eyes of celestial blue, and exquisite 
form. 

The years had brought out the animal, in her. She 
found it more and more difficult to repress the spite, rage, 
hatred, against Horace and fate, which consumed her 
within, and violated the external beauty with unholy 
touches, wrinkles, grimaces, tricks of sneering, distortions 
of rage. Her dreams of hatred had only one scene : a 
tiger in her own form rending the body of the man who 
had discovered and punished her with a power like om- 
nipotence; rending him but not killing him, leaving his 
heart to beat and his face unmarked, that he might feel 
his agony and show it. 

“If you had sent me the telegram,” she remarked to 
Curran, “I would not have come. But this dear Colette, 
she is to be my good angel and lead me to success, aren’t 
you, little devil ? Ever since she took up the matter I 
have had my beautiful dreams once more, oh, such 
thrilling dreams ! Like the novels of Eugene Sue, just 
splendid. Well, why don’t you speak ? ” 

He pointed to Edith with a gesture of submission. She 
was hugging the little boy before the nurse took him away, 
teasing him into baby talk, kissing him decorously but 
lavishly, as if she could not get enough of him. 

“ He’s not to speak until asked,” she cried. 

“And then only say what she thinks,” he added. 

“ La ! are you fighting over it already ? That’s not a 
good sign.” 

With a final embrace which brought a howl from young 
Horace, Edith gave the boy to the nurse and began her 
story of finding Horace Endicott in the son of Anne Dil- 
lon. She acted the story, admirably keeping back the 
points which would have grated on Sonia’s instincts, or 
rather expectations. The lady, impressed, evidently felt 
a lack of something when Curran refused his interest and 
his concurrence to the description. 

“ What do you wish me to do ? ” said she. 

“ To see this Dillon and to study him, as one would a 
problem. The man’s been playing this part, living it in- 
deed, nearly five years. Can any one expect that the 
first glance will pierce his disguise ? He must be watched 
and studied for days, and if that fetches nothing, then you 
must meet him suddenly, and say to him tenderly, ‘at 


286 


last, Horace ! ’ If that fetches nothing, then we must go 
to California, and work until we get the evidence which 
will force him to acknowledge himself and give, up his 
money. But by that time, if we can make sure it is he, 
and if we can get his money, then I would recommend one 
thing ! Kill him ! ” 

Sonia’s eyes sparkled at the thought of that sweet 
murder. 

“ And wait another five years for all this,” was her 
cynical remark. 

“ If the question is not settled this Fall, then let it go 
forever,” said Edith with energy. 

“ The scheme is well enough,” Sonia said lazily. “ Is 
this Arthur Dillon handsome, a dashing blade ?” 

“ Better,” murmured Edith with a smack of her lips, 
“ a virtuous sport, who despises the sex in a way, and can 
master woman by a look. He is my master. And I hate 
him ! It will be worth your time to see him and meet him.” 

“ And now you,” to Curran. 

Sonia did not know, nor care why Edith hated Dillon. 

“ I protest, Sonia. He will put a spell on you, and spoil 
our chances. Let him talk later when we have succeeded 
or failed.” 

“ Nonsense, you fool. I must hear both sides, but I 
declare now that I submit myself to you wholly. What 
do you say, Curran ?” 

“ Just this, madam : if this man Arthur Dillon is really 
your husband, then he’s too clever to be caught by any 
power in this world. Any way you choose to take it, you 
will end as this search has always ended.” 

“ Why do you think him so clever ? My Horace was 
anything but clever. . . at least we thought so . . . until 
now.” 

“ Until he has foiled every attempt to find him,” said 
Curran. “ Colette has her own ideas, but she has kept 
back all the details that make or unmake a case. She is 
so sure of her instincts ! No doubt they are good.” 

“But not everything, hey?” said the lady tenderly. 
“ Ah, a woman’s instincts lead her too far sometimes. . .” 
they all laughed. “Well, give me the details Colette left 
out. No winking at each other. I won’t raise a hand in 
this matter until I have heard both sides.” 

“ This Arthur Dillon is Irish, and lives among the Irish 


287 


in the old-fashioned Irish way, half in the slums, and half 
in the swell places. . .” 

“ Mon Dieu, what is this I hear ! The Irish ! My 
Horace live among the Irish ! That’s not the man. He 
could live anywhere, among the Chinese, the Indians, the 
niggers, but with that low class of people, never !” and 
she threw up her hands in despair. “ Did I come from 
Boston to pursue a low Irishman ! ” 

“ You see,” cried Edith. “ Already he has cast his 
spell on you. He doesn't believe I have found your man, 
and he won't let you believe it. Can't you see that this 
Horace went to the very place where you were sure he 
would not go ? ” 

“ You cannot tell him now from an Irishman,” continued 
the detective. “He has an Irish mother, he is a member 
of Tammany Hall, he is a politician who depends on Irish 
voters, he joined the Irish revolutionists and went over the 
sea to fight England, and he's in love with an Irish 
girl.” 

“ Shocking ! Horace never had any taste or any sense, 
but I know he detested the Irish around Boston. I can’t 
believe it of him. But, as Colette says truly, he would 
hide himself in the very place where we least think of 
looking for him.” 

“ Theories have come to nothing,” screamed Edith, 
until the lady placed her hands on her ears. “ Skill and 
training and coolness and all that rot have come to 
nothing. Because I hate Arther Dillon I have discovered 
Horace Endicott. Now I want to see your eyes looking 
at this man, eyes with hate in them, and with murder in 
them. They will discover more than all the stupid de- 
tectives in the country. See what hate did for Horace 
Endicott. He hated you, and instead of murdering you 
he learned to torture you. He hated you, and it made 
him clever. Oh, hate is a great teacher ! This fool of 
mine loves Arthur Dillon, because he is a patriot and hates 
England. Hate breeds cleverness, it breeds love, it opens 
the mind, it will dig out Horace Endicott and his fortune, 
and enrich us all.” 

“La, but you are strenuous,” said the lady placidly, 
but impressed. She was a shallow creature in the main, 
and Curran compared his little wife, eloquent, glowing 
with feeling, dainty as a flame, to the slower-witted beauty, 


238 


with plain admiration in his gaze. She deserves to succeed, 
he thought. Sonia came to a conclusion, languidly. 

“We must try the eyes of hate,” was her decision. 

The pursuit of Arthur proved very interesting. The 
detective knew his habits of labor and amusement, his 
public haunts and loitering-places. Sonia saw him first at 
the opera, modestly occupying a front seat in the balcony. 

“ Horace would never do that when he could get a box,” 
and she leveled her glass at him. 

Edith mentally dubbed her a fool. However, her study 
of the face and figure and behavior of the man showed care 
and intelligence. Edith’s preparation had helped her. She 
saw a lean, nervous young man, whose flowing black hair 
and full beard were streaked with gray. His dark face, 
hollow in the cheeks and not too well-colored with the glow 
of health, seemed to get light and vivacity from his melan- 
choly eyes. Seriousness was the characteristic expression. 
Once he laughed, in the whole evening. Once he looked 
straight into her face, with so fixed, so intense an expres- 
sion, so near a gaze, so intimate and penetrating, that she 
gave a low cry. 

“You have recognized him?” Edith whispered mad 
with joy. 

“No, indeed,” she answered sadly, “That is not 
Horace Endicott. Not a feature that I recall, certainly no 
resemblance. I was startled because I saw just now in 
his look, ... he looked towards me into the glass . . . 
an expression that seemed familiar ... as if I had seen it 
before, and it had hurt me then as it hurts me now.” 

“There’s a beginning,” said Edith with triumph. 
“ Next time for a nearer look.” 

“Oh, he could never have changed so,” Sonia cried 
with bitterness of heart. 

Curran secured tickets for a ball to be held by a political 
association in the Cherry Hill district, and placed the 
ladies in a quiet corner of the gallery of the hall. Arthur 
Dillon, as a leading spirit in the society, delighted to 
mingle with the homely, sincere, warm-hearted, and simple 
people for whom this occasion was a high festival ; and 
nowhere did his sorrow rest so lightly on his soul, nowhere 
did he feel so keenly the delight of life, or give freer expres- 
sion to it. Edith kept Sonia at the highest pitch of ex- 
citement and interest. 


289 


“ Remember, ” she said now, “ that he probably knows 
you are in town, that you are here watching him ; but not 
once will he look this way, nor do a thing other than if 
you were miles away. My God, to be an actor like that ! ” 

The actor played his part to perfection and to the utter 
disappointment of the women. The serious face shone 
now with smiles and color, with the flash of wit and the 
play of humor. Horace Endicott had been a merry fel- 
low, but a Quaker compared with the butterfly swiftness 
and gaiety of this young man, who led the grand march, 
flirted with the damsels and chatted with the dames, 
danced as often as possible, joked with the men, found 
partners for the unlucky, and touched the heart of every 
rollicking moment. The old ladies danced jigs with him, 
proud to their marrow of the honor, and he allowed himself 
. . . Sonia gasped at the sight ... to execute a wild 
Irish pas seul amid the thunderous applause of the hearty 
and adoring company. 

“ That man Horace Endicott ! ” she exclaimed with 
contempt. “ Bah ! But it’s interesting, of course.” 

“ What a compliment ! what acting ! oh, incomparable 
man ! ” said Edith, enraged at his success before such an 
audience. Her husband smiled behind his hand. 

“You have a fine imagination, Colette, but I would not 
give a penny for your instinct,” said Soqia. 

“ My instinct will win just the same, but I fear we shall 
have to go to California. This man is too clever for com- 
monplace people.” 

“ Arthur Dillon is a fine orator,” said Curran mischie- 
vously, “ and to-morrow night you shall hear him at his 
best on the sorrows of Ireland.” 

Sonia laughed heartily and mockingly. Were not these 
same sorrows, from their constancy and from repetition, 
become the joke of the world ? Curran could have struck 
her evil face for the laugh. 

“Was your husband a speaker ?” he asked. 

“ Horace would not demean himself to talk in public, 
and he couldn’t make a speech to save his life. But to 
talk on the sorrows of Ireland . . . oh, it’s too absurd.” 

“ And why not Ireland’s sorrows as well as those of 
America, or any other country ? ” he replied savagely. 

“ Oh, I quite forgot that you were Irish ... a thou- 
sand pardons,” she said with sneering civility. “Of 


290 


course, I shall be glad to hear his description of the sor- 
rows. An orator ! It’s very interesting.” 

The occasion for the display of Arthur's powers was one 
of the numerous meetings for which the talking Irish are 
famous all over the world, and in which their clever 
speakers have received fine training. Even Sonia, im- 
pressed by the enthusiasm of the gathering, and its es- 
teem for Dillon, could not withhold her admiration. 
Alas, it was not her Horace who poured out a volume of 
musical tone, vigorous English, elegant rhetoric, with the 
expression, the abandonment, the picturesqueness of a 
great actor. She shuddered at his descriptions, her heart 
melted and her eyes moistened at his pathos, she became 
filled with wonder. It was not Horace ! Her husband 
might have developed powers of eloquence, but would have 
to be remade to talk in that fashion of any land. This 
Dillon had terrible passion, and her Horace was only a 
a handsome fool. She could have loved Dillon. 

“ So yon will have to arrange the little scene where I 
shall stand before him without warning, and murmur 
tenderly, ‘ at last, Horace ! 5 And it must be done 
without delay,” was her command to Edith. 

“It can be done perhaps to-morrow night,” Edith said 
in a secret rage, wondering what Arthur Dillon could have 
seen in Sonia. “ But bear in mind why I am doing this 
scene, with the prospects of a furious time afterwards with 
Dillon. I want you to see him asleep, just for ten minutes, 
in the light of a strong lamp. In sleep there is no disguise. 
When he is dressed for a part and playing it, the sharpest 
eyes, even the eyes of hate, may not be able to escape the 
glamour of the disguise. The actor asleep is more like 
himself. You shall look into his face, and turn it from 
side to side with your own hands. If you do not catch 
some feeling from that, strike a resemblance, I shall feel 
like giving up.” 

“La, but you are an audacious creature,” said Sonia, 
and the triviality of the remark sent Edith into wild 
laughter. She would like to have bitten the beauty. 

The detective consented to Edith's plans, in his anxiety 
to bring the farce to an end before the element of danger 
grew. L T p to this point they might appeal to Arthur for 
mercy. Later the dogs would be upon them. As yet no 
sign of irritation on Arthur's part had appeared. The day 


after the oration on the sorrows of Erin he sent a note to 
Curran announcing his intention to call the same evening. 
Edith, amazed at her own courage in playing with the fire 
which in an instant could destroy her, against the warning 
of her husband, was bent on carrying out the scene. 

Dearly she loved the dramatic off the stage, spending 
thought and time in its arrangement. How delicious the 
thought of this man and his wife meeting under circum- 
stances so wondrous after five years of separation. Though 
death reached her the next moment she would see it. 
The weakness of the plot lay in Sonia’s skepticism and 
Arthur’s knowledge that a trap was preparing. He would 
brush her machinery aside like a cobweb, but that did not 
affect the chance of his recognition by Sonia. 

Dillon had never lost his interest in the dancer and her 
husband. They attracted him. In their lives ran the 
same strain of madness, the madness of the furies, as in 
his own. Their lovable qualities were not few. Occasion- 
ally he dropped in to tease Edith over her lack of con- 
science, or her failures, and to discuss the cause of freedom 
with the smooth and flinty Curran. Wild humans have 
the charm of their wilderness. One must not forget their 
teeth and their claws. This night the two men sat alone. 
Curran filled the glasses and passed the cigars. Arthur 
made no comment on the absence of Edith. He might 
have been aware that the curtains within three feet of his 
chair, hiding the room beyond, concealed the two women, 
whose eyes, peering through small glasses fixed in the 
ourtains, studied his face. He might even have guessed 
that his easy chair had been so placed as to let the light 
fall upon him while Curran sat in the dim light beyond. 
The young man gave no sign, spoke freely with Curran on 
the business of the night, and acted as usual. 

“ Of course it must be stopped at once,” he said. 
“ Y T ery much flattered of course that I should be taken 
for Horace Endicott . . . you gave away Tom Jones’ 
name at last . . . but these things, so trifling to you, jar 
the nerves of women. Then it would never do for me, 
with my little career in California unexplained, to have 
stories of a double identity ... is that what you call it ? 

. . . running around. Of course I know it’s that devil 
Edith, presuming always on good nature . . . that’s her 
nature . . . but if you don’t stop it, why I must.” 


292 


“ You’ll have to do it, I think/’ the detective replied 
maliciously. “ I can do only what she orders. I had to 
satisfy her by running to the priest, and your mother, and 
the Senator ” 

“ What ! even my poor uncle ! Oh, Curran ! ” 

“ The whole town, for that matter, Mr. Dillon. It was 
done in such a way, of course, that none of them suspected 
anything wrong, and we talked under promise of secrecy. 
I saw that the thing had to be done to satisfy her and to 
bring you down on us. Now you’re down and the trouble’s 
over as far as I am concerned.” 

“ And Tom Jones was Horace Endicott,” Arthur mused, 
“I knew it of course all along, but I respected your con- 
fidence. I had known Endicott.” 

“ You knew Horace Endicott ? ” said Curran, horrified 
by a sudden vision of his own stupidity. 

“And his lady, a lovely, a superb creature, but just a 
shade too sharp for her husband, don’t you know. He 
was a fool in love, wasn’t he ? judging from your story of 
him. Has she become reconciled to her small income, I 
wonder ? She was not that kind, but when one has to, 
that’s the end of it. And there are consolations. How the 
past month has tired me. I could go to sleep right in the 
chair, only I want to settle this matter to-night, and I must 
say a kind word to the little devil ” 

His voice faded away, and he slept, quite overpowered 
by the drug placed in his wine. After perfect silence for 
a minute, Curran beckoned to the women, who came 
noiseless into the room, and bent over the sleeping face. 
In his contempt for them, the detective neither spoke nor 
left his seat. Harpies brooding over the dead ! Even he 
knew that ! 

Arthur’s face lay in profile, its lines all visible, owing to 
the strong light, through the disguise of the beard. The 
melancholy which marks the face of any sleeper, a fore- 
shadow of the eternal sleep, had become on this sleeper’s 
countenance a profound sadness. From his seat Curran 
could see the pitiful droop of the mouth, the hollowness 
of the eyes, the shadows under the cheek-bones ; marks of 
a sadness too deep for tears. Sonia took his face in her 
soft hands and turned the right profile to the light. She 
looked at the full face, smoothed his hair as if trying to 
recall an ancient memory. 


293 


“ The eyes of hate,” murmured Edith between tears and 
rage. She pitied while she hated him, understanding the 
sorrow that could mark a man's face so deeply, admiring 
the courage which could wear the mask so well. Sonia 
was deeply moved in spite of disappointment. At one mo- 
ment she caught a fleeting glimpse of her Horace, but too 
elusive to hold and analyze. Something pinched her feel- 
ings and the great tears fell from her soft eyes. Emotion 
merely pinched her. Only in hate could she writhe and 
foam and exhaust nature. She studied his hands, observed 
the fingers, with the despairing conviction that this was 
not the man ; too lean and too coarse and too hard ; and 
her rage began to burn against destiny. Oh, to have Horace 
as helpless under her hands ! How she could rend 
him ! 

“Do you see any likeness ?” whispered Edith. 

“ None,” was the despairing answer. 

“Be careful,” hissed Curran. “In this sleep words 
are heard and remembered sometimes.” 

Edith swore the great oaths which relieved her anger. 
But what use to curse, to look and curse again ? At the 
last moment Curran signalled them away, and began 
talking about his surprise that Arthur should have known 
the lost man. 

“ Because you might have given me a clue,” Arthur 
heard him saying as he came back from what he thought 
had been a minute's doze, “ and saved me a year's search, 
not to mention the money I could have made.” 

“I'll tell you about it some other time,” said Arthur 
with a yawn, as he lit a fresh cigar. “ Ask madam to 
step in here, will you. I must warn her in a wholesome 
way.” 

“ I think she is entertaining a friend,” Curran said, 
hinting plainly at a surprise. 

“ Let her bring the friend along,” was the careless 
answer. 

The two women entered presently, and Edith made the 
introduction. The husband and wife stood face to face at 
last. Her voice failed in her throat from nervousness, so 
sure was she that the Endicotts had met again ! They had 
the center of the stage, and the interest of the audience, 
but acted not one whit like the people in a play. 

“Delighted,” said Arthur in his usual drawling way on 


294 


these occasions. “1 have had the pleasure of meeting 
Mrs. Endicott before.” 

“ Indeed,” cried the lady. “ I regret that my mem- 
ory. . .” 

“ At Castle Moyna, a little f6te, mother fainted because 
she saw me running across the lawn ... of course you 
remember. . .” 

“ Why, certainly ... we all felt so sorry for the 
young singer . . . her father. . . ” 

“ He was in jail and died since, poor man. Then I saw 
you coming across on the steamer with a dear, sweet, old 
lady. . .” 

“My husband’s aunt,” Sonia gasped at the thought of 
Aunt Lois. 

“ Oh, but lie’s letter-perfect,” murmured Edith in 
admiration. 

“And you might remember me,” said the heartless fel- 
low, “ but of course on a wedding-tour no one can expect 
the parties to remember anything, as the guide for a 
whole week to your party in California.” 

“ Of course there was a guide,” she admitted, very pleas- 
ant to meet him again, and so on to the empty end. 
Edith, stunned by her defeat, sat crushed, for this man no 
more minded the presence of his wife than did Curran. 
It was true. Arthur had often thought that a meeting 
like this in the far-off years would rock his nature as an 
earthquake rocks the solid plain. Though not surprised 
at her appearance, for Edith’s schemes had all been 
foreseen, he felt surprise at his own indifference. So 
utterly had she gone out of his thought, that her sudden 
appearance, lovely and seductive as of old, gave him no 
twinge of hate, fear, repugnance, disgust, horror, shame, 
or pain. 

He took no credit to himself for a self-control, which 
he had not been called upon by any stress of feeling to ex- 
ercise. He was only Arthur Dillon, encountering a lady 
with a past ; a fact in itself more or less amusing. 
Once she might have been a danger to be kept out like a 
pest, or barricaded in quarantine. That time had gone 
by. His indifference for the moment appalled him, since 
it showed the hopeless depth of Endicott’s grave. After 
chatting honestly ten minutes, he went away light of 


295 


heart, without venturing to warn Edith. Another day, 
he told her, and be good meanwhile. 

Curran became thoughtful, and the women irritable 
after he had gone. Edith felt that her instincts had no 
longer a value in the market. In this wretched Endicott 
affair striking disappointment met the most brilliant 
endeavors. . Sonia made ready to return to her hotel. 
Dolorously the Currans paid her the last courtesies, waiting 
for the word which would end the famous search for her 
Horace. 

“1 have been thinking the matter over,” she said 
sweetly, “ and I have thought out a plan, not in your line 
of course, which I shall see to at once. I think it worth 
while to look through California for points in the life of 
this interesting young man, Mr. Dillon.” 

When the door closed on her, Edith began to shriek in 
hysterical laughter. 


296 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE HEART OF HOHORA. 

While Edith urged the search for Endicott, the little 
world to be horrified by her success enjoyed itself north 
and south as the season suggested, and the laws of fashion 
permitted. At the beginning of June, Anne settled her- 
self comfortably for the summer in a roomy farmhouse, 
overlooking Lake Champlain and that particular island of 
Valcour, which once witnessed the plucky sea-fight and 
defeat of dare-devil Arnold. Only Honoraiaccompanied 
her, but at the close of the month Louis, the deacon, and 
Mrs. Doyle Grahame joined them ; and after that the 
whole world came at odd times, with quiet to-day and riot 
to-morrow. Honora, the center* of interest, the storm- 
center, as we call it in these daj'S, turned every eye in her 
direction with speculative interest. Would she retire to 
the convent, or find her vocation in the world ? She had 
more than fulfilled her father’s wish that she remain in 
secular life for a year. Almost two years had passed. He 
could not reproach her from his grave. 

One divine morning she came upon the natural stage 
which had been the scene of a heart-drama more bitter to 
her than any sorrow. Walking alone in the solemn woods 
along the lake shore, the path suddenly ended on a rocky 
terrace, unshaded by trees, and directly over the water. 
Raspberry bushes made an enclosure there, in the center 
of which the stumps of two trees held a rough plank to 
make a seat. A stony beach curved inward from this 
point, the dark woods rose behind, and the soft waters 
made music in the hollows of the rock beneath her feet. 
Delightful with the perfume of the forest, the placid 
shores of Valcour, sun, and flower, and bird filling eye 
and ear with beauty, the sight of the spot chilled her 
heart. Here Lord Constantine had offered her his love 
and his life the year before. To her it had been a fright- 


297 


ful scene, this strong, handsome, clever man, born to the 
highest tilings of mind, heart, talent and rank, kneeling 
before her, pleading with pallid face for her love, . . . and 
all the rest of it ! She would have sunk down with shame 
but for his kindness in accepting the situation, and car- 
rying her through it. 

Why his proposal shocked her his lordship could not 
see at first. He understood before his mournful interview 
and ended. Honora was of that class, to whom marriage 
does not present itself as a personal concern. She had the 
true feminine interest in the marriage of her friends, and 
had vaguely dreamed of her own march to the altar, an 
adoring lover, a happy home and household cares. 
Happy in the love of a charming mother and a high- 
hearted father, she had devoted her youthful days to them 
and to music. They stood between her and importunate 
lovers, whose intentions she had never divined. 

With the years came trouble, the death of the mother, 
the earning of her living by her art, the care of her father, 
and the work for her native land. Lovers could not pur- 
sue this busy woman, occupied with father and native land, 
and daily necessity. The eternal round of travel, conspi- 
racy, scheming, planning, spending, with its invariable end- 
ing of disappointment and weariness of heart, brought forth 
a longing for the peace of rest, routine, satisfied aspira- 
tions ; and from a dream the convent became a passion, 
longed for as the oasis by the traveler in the sands. 

Simple and sincere as light, the hollow pretence of the 
world disgusted her. Her temperament was of that un- 
happy fiber which sees the end almost as speedily as the 
beginning ; change and death and satiety treading on the 
heels of the noblest enterprise. For her there seemed no 
happiness but in the possession of the everlasting, the 
unchangeable, the divinely beautiful. Out of these feel- 
ings and her pious habits rose the longing for the convent, 
for what seemed to be permanent, fixed, proportioned, 
without dust and dirt and ragged edges, and wholly 
devoted to God. 

After a little Lord Constantine understood her aston- 
ishment, her humiliation, her fright. He had a wretched 
satisfaction in knowing that no other man would snatch 
this prize ; but oh, how bitter to give her up even to God ! 
The one woman in all time for him, more could be said in 


298 


her praise still ; her like was not outside heaven. How 
much this splendid lake, with sapphire sky and green 
shores, lacked of true beauty until she stepped like light 
into view ; then, as for the first time, one saw the green 
woods glisten, the waters sparkle anew, the sky deepen in 
richness ! One had to know her heart, her nature, so 
nobly dowered, to see this lighting up of nature’s finest 
work at her coming. She was beautiful, white as milk, 
with eyes like jewels, framed in lashes of silken black, so 
dark, se dark ! 

Honora wept at the sight of his face as he went away. 
She had seen that despair in her father’s face. And she 
wept to-day as she sat on the rough bench. Had she 
been to blame ? Why had she delayed her entrance into 
the convent a year beyond the time ? Arthur had declared 
his work could not get on without her for at least an extra 
half year. She was lingering still ? Had present comfort 
shaken her resolution ? 

A cry roused her from her mournful thoughts, and she 
looked up to see Mona rounding the point at the other 
end of the stony beach, laboring at the heavy oars. 
Honora smiled and waved her handkerchief. Here was 
one woman for whom life had no problems, only solid con- 
tentment, and perennial interest ; and who thought her 
husband the finest thing in the world. She beached her 
boat and found her way up to the top of the rock. To 
look at her no one would dream, Honora certainly did 
not, that she had any other purpose than breathing the 
air. 

Mrs. Doyle Grahame enjoyed the conviction that mar- 
riage settles all difficulties, if one goes about it rightly. 
She had gone about it rightly, with marvellous results. 
That charming bear her father had put his neck in her 
yoke, and now traveled about in her interest as mild as a 
clam. All men gasped at the sight of his meekness. When 
John Everard Grahame arrived on this planet, his grand- 
father fell on his knees before him and his parents, and 
never afterwards departed from that attitude. Doyle 
Grahame laid it to his art of winning a father-in-law. 
Mona found the explanation simply in the marriage, which 
to her, from the making of the trousseau to the christening 
of the boy, had been wonderful enough to have changed the 
face of the earth. The delicate face, a trifle fuller, had 


299 


increased in dignity. Her hair flamed more glorious than 
ever. As a young matron she patronized Honora now an 
old maid. 

s< You’ve been crying/’ said she, with a glance around, 
“ and I don’t wonder. This is the place where you broke 
a good man’s heart. It will remain bewitched until you 
accept some other man in the same spot. How did we 
know. Miss Cleverly ? Do you think Conny was as secret 
as you ? And didn’t I witness the whole scene from the 
point yonder ? I couldn’t hear the words, but there wasn’t 
any need of it. Heavens, the expression of you two ! ” 

“ Mona, do you mean to tell me that every one knew it ? ” 

“ Every soul, my dear ostrich with your head in the 
sand. The hope is that you will not repeat the refusal 
when the next lover comes along. And if you can arrange 
to have the scene come off here, as you arranged for the 
last one ... I have always maintained that the lady with 
a convent vocation is by nature the foxiest of all women. 
I don’t know why, but she shows it.” 

The usual fashion of teasing Honora attributed to her 
qualities opposed to a religious vocation. 

“ Well, I have made up my mind to fly at once to the 
convent,” she said, “ with my foxiness and other evil qual- 
ities. If it was my fault that one man proposed to 
me ” 

<f It was your fault, of course. Why do you throw doubt 
upon it ?” 

“ It will not be my fault that the second man proposes. 
So, this place may remain accursed forever. Oh, my poor 
Lord Constantine ! After all his kindness to father and 
me, to be forced to inflict such suffering on him ! Why 
do men care for us poor creatures so much, Mona ? ” 

“ Because we care so much for them ...” Honora 
laughed . . . “ and because we are necessary to their 
happiness. You should go round the stations on your 
knees once a day for the rest of your life, for having re- 
jected Lord Conny. It wasn’t mere ingratitude . . . that 
was bad enough ; but to throw over a career so splendid, 
to desert Ireland so outrageously,” this was mere pre- 
tence ... “ to lose all importance in life for the sake of 
a dream, for the sake of a convent.” 

“ You have a prejudice against convents, Mona.” 

“ No, dear, I believe in convents for those who are 


300 


made that way. I have noticed, perhaps you have too, 
that many people who should go to a convent will not, 
and many people at present in the cloisters ought to have 
stayed where nature put them first.” 

“ It's pleasant on a day like this for you to feel that you 
are just where nature intended you to be, isn’t it ? How 
did you leave the baby ? ” 

Mona leaped into a rhapsody on the wonderful child, 
who was just then filling the time of Anne, and at the 
same time filling the air with bowlings, but returned 
speedily to her purpose. 

“ Did you say you had fixed the day, Honora ? ” 

“ In September, any day before the end of the month.” 

“ You were never made for the convent,” with serious- 
ness. “ Too fond of the running about in life, and your 
training is all against it.” 

“ My training ! ” said Honora. 

“ All your days you were devoted to one man, weren’t 
you ? And to the cause of a nation, weren’t you ? And 
to the applause of the crowd, weren’t you ? Now, my 
dear, when you find it necessary to make a change in your 
habits, the changes should be in line with those habits. 
Otherwise you may get a jolt that you won’t forget. In a 
convent, there will be no man, no Ireland, and no crowd, 
will there ? What you should have done was to marry 
Lord Conny, and to keep right on doing what you had 
done before, only with more success. Now when the next 
man comes along, do not let the grand opportunity go.” 

“ I’ll risk the jolt,” Honora replied. “ But this next 
man about whom you have been hinting since you came 
up here ? Is this the man ? ” 

She pointed to the path leading into the woods. Louis 
came towards them in a hurry, having promised them a 
trip to the rocks of Valcour. The young deacon was in 
fighting trim after a month on the farm, the pallor of hard 
study and confinement had fled, and the merry prospect 
ahead made his life an enchantment. Onlyliis own could 
see the slight but ineffaceable mark of his experience with 
Sister Claire. 

“ Take care,” whispered Mona. “ He is not the man, 
but the man’s agent.” 

Louis bounced into the raspberry enclosure and flung 
himself at their feet. 


301 


“ Tell me,” said Honora mischievously. “ Is there any 
man in love with me, and planning to steal away my con- 
vent from me ? Tell me true, Louis.” 

The deacon sat up and cast an indignant look on his 
sister. 

“ Shake not thy gory locks at me,” she began cooly. . . 

“ There it is,” he burst out. “ Do you know, Honora, 
I think marriage turns certain kinds of people, the red- 
heads in particular, quite daft. This one is never done 
talking about her husband, her baby, her experience, her 
theory, her friends who are about to marrv, or who want 
to marry, or who can’t marry. She can’t see two persons 
together without patching up a union for them. ...” 

“ Everybody should get married,” said Mona serenely, 
“except priests and nuns. Honora is not a nun, there- 
fore she should get married.” 

“ The reasoning is all right,” replied the deacon, “ but 
it doesn’t apply here. Don’t you worry, Honora. There’s 
no man about here that will worry you, and even if there 
was, hold fast to that which is given thee. . . .” 

“ Don’t quote Scripture, Reverend Sir,” cried Mona 
angrily. 

“ The besotted world is not worth the pother this foolish 
young married woman makes over it.” 

The foolish young woman received a warning from her 
brother when Mona went into the woods to gather an armful 
of wild blossoms for the boat. 

“Don’t you know,” said he with the positiveness of a 
young theologian, “ that Arthur will probably never 
marry ? Has he looked at a girl in that way since he came 
back from California ? He’s giddy enough, I know, but 
one that studies him can see he has no intention of marry- 
ing. Now why do you trouble this poor girl, after her 
scene with the Englishman, with hints of Arthur ? I tell 
you he will never marry.” 

“ You may know more about him than I do,” his sister 
placidly answered, “ but I have seen him looking at Honora 
for the last five years, and working for her, and thinking 
about her. His look changed recently. Perhaps you 
know why. There’s something in the air. I can feel it. 
You can’t. None of you celibates can. And you can’t 
see beyond your books in matters of love and marriage. 
That’s quite right. We can manage such things better. 


302 


And if Arthur makes up his mind to win her, I’m bound 
she shall have him.” 

“ We can manage ! Pm bound ! ” he mimicked. “ Well, 
remember that I warned you. It isn’t so much that your 
fingers may be burned. . . that’s what you need, you 
married minx. You may do harm to those two. They 
seem to be at peace. Let ’em alone.” 

“ What was the baby doing when you left the house ? ” 
said she for answer. 

“ Tearing the nurse’s hair out in handfuls,” said the 
proud uncle, as he plunged into a list of the doings of the 
wonderful child, who fitted into any conversation as neatly 
as a preposition. 

Mona grew sad at heart. Her brother evidently knew 
of some obstacle to this union, something in Arthur’s past 
life which made his marriage with any woman impossible. 
She recalled his silence about the California episode, his 
indifference to women, his lack of enthusiasm as to 
marriage. 

They rowed away over the lake, with the boat half 
buried in wild bushes, sprinkled with dandelion flowers 
and the tender blossoms of the apple trees. Ilonora was 
happy, at peace. She put the scene with Lord Constan- 
tine away from her, and forgot the light words of Mona. 

Whoever the suitor might be, Arthur did not appear to 
her as a lover. So careful had he been in his behavior, 
that Louis would have as much place in her thought as 
Arthur, who had never discouraged her hope of the con- 
vent, except by pleading for Ireland. The delay in keeping 
her own resolution had been pleasant. Now that the 
date was fixed, the grateful enclosure of the cloister seemed 
to shut her in from all this dust and clamor of men, from the 
noisome sights and sounds of world-living, from the endless 
coming and going and running about, concerning trifles, 
from the injustice and meanness and hopeless crimes of 
men. 

In the shade of the altar, in the restful gloom of Calvary, 
she could look up with untired eyes to the calm glow of 
the celestial life, unchanging, orderly, beautiful with its 
satisfied aspiration, and rich in perfect love and holy com- 
panionship. Such a longing came over her to walk into 
this perfect peace that moment ! Mona well knew this 
mood, and Louis in triumph signalled his sister to look. 


303 


Her eyes, turned to the rocky shore of Valcour, saw far 
beyond. On her perfect face lay a shadow, the shadow of 
her longing, and from her lips came now and then the per- 
fume of a sigh. 

In silence these two watched her, Louis recognizing the 
borderland of holy ecstasy, Mona hopeful that the vision 
was only a mirage. The boat floated close to the perpen- 
dicular rocks and reflected itself in the deep waters ; far 
away the farmhouse lay against the green -woods ; to the 
north rose the highest point of the bluff, dark with pines ; 
farther on was the sweep of the curved shore, and still 
farther the red walls of the town. Never boat carried 
freight so beautiful as this which bore along the island the 
young mother, the young deacon, and deep-hearted 
Honora, who was blessing God. 


,304 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A HARPY AT THE FEAST. 

While this comedy went on, the farm-house and its 
happy life were keenly and bitterly watched by the 
wretched wife of Curran. It was her luck, like Sonia’s, 
to spoil her own feast in defiling her enemy’s banquet. 
Having been routed at all points and all but sent to Jeza- 
bel’s fate by Arthur Dillon, she had-stolen into this paradise 
to do what mischief she could. Thus it happened that 
the two women met in a favorite haunt of Honora’s in the 
woods near the lake. 

As Honora entered this lovely place, Edith sat on a stone 
near the edge of the precipice, enjoying the view. She 
faced the newcomer with unfailing impertinence, and 
coolly studied the woman whom Arthur Dillon loved. 
Sickness of heart filled her with rage. The evil beauty of 
Sonia and herself showed purely animal beside the pale 
spiritual luster that shone from this noble, sad-hearted 
maid. Honora bowed distantly and passed on. Edith 
began to glow with delight of torturing her presently, and 
would not speak lest her pleasure be hurried. The in- 
stinct of the wild beast, to worry the living game, over- 
powered her. What business had Honora with so much 
luck ? The love of Arthur, fame as a singer, beauty, and 
a passion for the perfect life ? God had endowed herself 
with three of these gifts. Having dragged them through 
the mud, she hated the woman who had used them with 
honor. What delight that in a moment she could torture 
her with death’s anguish ! 

“ I came here in the hope of meeting you, madam,” she 
began suddenly, “ if you are Miss Ledwith. I come to 
warn you.” 

“ I do not need warnings from strangers,” Honora re- 
plied easily, studying the other for an instant with indif- 
ferent eyes, “and if you wished to see me on proper mat- 
ters yon should have called at the house. ” 


305 


u For a scene with the man who ran away from his wife 
before he deceived me, and now makes love to you ? I 
could hardly do that,” said she as demure and soft as a 
purring cat. 

Honora's calm look plainly spoke her thought : the crea- 
ture was mad. 

“ I am not mad, Miss Ledwith, and your looks will not 
prevent me warning you. Arthur Dillon is not the man 
he pretends ” 

“Please go away,” Honora interrupted. 

“ He is not the son of Anne Dillon ” 

Then I shall go,” said Honora, but Edith barred the 
only way out of the place, her eyes blazing with the insane 
pleasure of torturing the innocent. Honora turned her 
back on her and walked down to the edge of the cliff, 
where she remained until the end. 

“ I know Arthur Dillon better than you know him,” 
Edith went on, “and I know you better than you think. 
Once I had the honor of your acquaintance. That doesn't 
matter. Neither does it matter just who Arthur Dillon 
is. He's a fraud from cover to cover. His deserted wife 
is living, poor as well as neglected. The wretched woman 
has sought him long ” 

“ Why don't you put her on the track ? ” Honora asked, 
relieved that the lunatic wished only to talk. 

“ He makes love to you now as he has done for years, 
and he hopes to marry you soon. I can tell that by 
his behavior. I warn you that he is not free to marry. 
His wife lives. If you marry him I shall put her on his 
track, and give you a honeymoon of scandal. It was 
enough for him to have wrecked my life and broken my 
heart. I shall not permit him to repeat that work on any 
other unfortunate.” 

“ Is that all ? ” 

Edith, wholly astonished at the feeble impression made 
by her story, saw that her usual form had been lacking. 
Her scorn for Honora suggested that acting would be 
wasted on her ; that the mere news of the living wife 
would be sufficient to plunge her into anguish. But here 
was no delight of pallid face and trembling limbs. Her 
tale would have gone just as well with the trees. 

“I have risked my life. to tell you this,” said she 


306 


throwing in the note of pathos. “If Arthur Dillon, or 
whoever he is, hears of it, he will kill me.” 

“ Don’t worry then,” and Honora turned about with 
benign face and manner, quite suited to the need of a 
crazy patient escaped from her keepers, “ I shall never 
tell him. But please go, for some one is coming. It may 
be he.” 

Edith turned about swiftly and saw a form approach- 
ing through the trees. She had her choice of two paths 
a little beyond, and fled by the upper one. Her fear of 
Arthur had become mortal. As it was she rushed into 
the arms of Louis, who had seen the fleeing form, and 
thought to play a joke upon Mona or Honora. He 
dropped the stranger and made apologies for his rudeness. 
She curtsied mockingly, and murmured : 

“ Possibly we have met before.” 

The blood rose hot to his face as he recognized her, 
and her face paled as he seized her by the wrist with scant 
courtesy. 

“ I scarcely hoped for the honor of meeting you again, 
Sister Claire. Of course you are here only for mischief, 
and Arthur Dillon must see you and settle with you. I’ll 
trouble you to come with me.” 

“ You have not improved,” she snarled. “ You would 
attack my honor again.” 

Then she screamed for help once, not the second 
time, which might have brought Arthur to the scene ; but 
Honora came running to her assistance. 

“ Ah, this was your prey, wolf ? ” said Louis coolly. 
“ Honora, has she been lying to you, this fox, Sister 
Claire, Edith Conyngham, with a string of other names 
not to be remembered ? Didn’t you know her ?” 

Honora recoiled. Edith stood in shame, with the 
mortified expression of the wild beast, the intelligent fox, 
trapped by an inferior boy. 

“Oh, let her go, Louis,” she pleaded. 

“Not till she has seen Arthur. The mischief she can 
do is beyond counting. Arthur knows how to deal with 
her.” 

“I insist,” said Honora. “Come away, Louis, please, 
come away.” 

He flung away her wrist with contempt, and pointed 
out her path. In a short time she had disappeared. 


307 


“ And what had she to tell you, may I ask ? ” said the 
Deacon. “ Like the banshee her appearance brings mis- 
fortune to us.” 

“ You have always been my confidant, Louis,” she 
answered after some thought. “ Do you know anything 
about the earlier years of Arthur Dillon ?” 

“Much. Was that her theme ?” 

“That he was married and his wife still lives.” 

“ He will tell you about that business himself no doubt. 
I know nothing clear or certain . . . some hasty expres- 
sions of feeling . . . part of a dream . . . the declaration 
that all was well now . . . and so on. But I shall tell 
him. Don’t object, I must. The woman is persistent 
and diabolical in her attempts to injure us. He must 
know at least that she is in the vicinity. He will guess 
what she’s after without any further hint. But you 
mustn’t credit her, Honora. As you know. . .” 

“Oh, I know,” she answered with a smile. “The 
wretched creature is not to be believed under any circum- 
stances. Poor soul ! ” 

Nevertheless she felt the truth of Edith’s story. It 
mattered little whether Arthur was Anne Dillon’s son, he 
would always be the faithful, strong friend, and ben- 
efactor. That he had a wife living, the living witness of 
the weakness of his career in the mines, shocked her 
for the moment. But she had no blame for him. His 
life was his own concern. Part of it had brought her 
much happiness. Edith’s scandalous story did not 
shake her confidence in him. Ah, in him ran the fibre 
of the hero, no matter what might have been his mis- 
takes ! They were like brother and sister, children of the 
dear father whose last moments they had consoled. Who 
would regret the sorrow which led to such a revealing of 
hearts ? 

The vision of her convent rose again to her pleased 
eye, fresh and beautiful as of old, and dearer because of 
the passing darkness which had concealed it for a time ; 
the light from the chapel windows falling upon the dark 
robes in the choir, the voices of the reader, chanter, and 
singer, and the solemn music of the organ ; the procession 
filing silently from one duty to another, the quiet cell 
when the day was over, and the gracious intimacy with 
God night and day. Could her belief and her delight in 


308 


that holy life have been dim for an instant ? Ah, weak- 
ness of the heart ! The mountain is none the less firm 
because clouds obscure its lofty form. She had been 
wrapped in the clouds of feeling, but never once had her 
determination failed. 


309 


CHAPTEK XXXIII. 

SONIA CONSULTS LIVINGSTONE. 

Edith’s visit, so futile, so unlike her, had been prompt- 
ed by the hatefulness of her nature. The expedition to 
California had failed, her effort to prove her instincts true 
had come to nothing, and Arthur Dillon had at last put 
his foot down and extinguished her and Sonia together. 
Free to snarl and spit if they chose, the two cats could 
never plot seriously against him more. Curran triumphed 
in the end. Tracking Arthur Dillon through California 
had all the features of a chase through the clouds after a 
bird. The scene changed with every step, and the ground 
just gone over faded like a dream. 

They found Dillons, a few named Arthur, some coinci- 
dences, several mysteries, and nothing beyond. The police 
still had the photographs sent out by Anne Dillon, and a 
record that the man sought for had been found and re- 
turned to his mother. The town where the search ended 
had only a ruined tavern and one inhabitant, who vaguely 
remembered the close of the incident. Edith surrendered 
the search in a violent temper, and all but scratched out 
the eyes of her devoted slave. To Sonia the detective put 
the net result very sensibly. 

“ Arthur Dillon did not live in California under his own 
name,” said he, “and things have so changed there in 
five years that his tracks have 'been wiped out as if by 
rain. All that has been done so far proves this man to be 
just what he appears. We never had a worse case, and 
never took up a more foolish pursuit. We have proved 
just one sure thing : that if this man be Horace, then he 
can’t be found. He is too clever to be caught, until he is 
willing to reveal himself. If you pursue him to the point 
which might result in his capture, there’ll be murder or 
worse waiting for you at that point. It might be better 
for you two not to find him.” 


310 


This suggestion, clever and terrifying, Sonia could not 
understand as clearly as Curran. She thought the soft 
nature of Horace quite manageable, and if murder were to 
be done her knife should do it. Oh, to seize his throat 
with her beautiful hands, to press and squeeze and dig 
until the blood gorged his face, and to see him die by 
inches, gasping ! He had fled like a coward ! Nothing 
easier to destroy than such a wretch ! 

“ Don’t give up, Sonia,” was Edith’s comment on the 
wise words of Curran. “ Get a good lawyer, and b}' some 
trick drag Dillon and his mother and the priest to court, 
put them on oath as to who the man is ; they won’t per- 
jure themselves, I’ll wager.” 

“That is my thought,” said Sonia tenderly nursing the 
idea. “There seems to be nothing more to do. I have 
thought the matter over very carefully. We are at the 
end. If this fails I mean to abandon the matter. But 
for his money I would have let him go as far as he wanted, 
and I would let this man pass too but for the hope of get- 
ting at his money. It is the only way to punish Horace, 
as he punished me. I feel like you, that the mystery is 
with this Arthur Dillon. Since I saw you last, he has 
filled my dreams, and always in the dreams he has been so 
like Horace that I now see more of a likeness in Arthur 
Dillon. I have a relative in the city, a very successful 
lawyer, Quincy Livingstone. I shall consult him. Per- 
haps it would be well for you to accompany me, Edith. 
You explain this case so well.” 

“ No, she’ll keep out of it, by your leave,” the detective 
answered for her. “ Dillon has had patience with this 
woman, but he will resent interference so annoying.” 

Edith made a face at him. 

“As if I could be bossed by either you or Arthur. 
Sonia, you have the right stuff in you, clear grit. This 
trick will land your man.” 

“ You’ll find an alligator who will eat the legs off you 
both before you can run away,” said Curran. 

“Do you know what I think, Dick Curran?” she 
snapped at him. “ That you have been playing the traitor 
to us, telling Arthur Dillon all we’ve been doing. Oh, 
if I could prove that, you wretch ! ” 

“ You have a high opinion of his softness, if you think 
he would throw away money to learn what any schoolboy 


311 


might learn by himself. How much did you, with all your 
cleverness, get out of him in the last five years ? ” 

He laughed joyfully at her wicked face. 

“Let me tell you this, ” he added. “You have been 
teasing that boy as a monkey might a lion. Now you 
will set on him the man that he likes least in this world, 
Livingstone. What a pretty mouthful you will be when 
he makes up his mind that you’ve done enough.” 

Nevertheless the two women called on Livingstone. 
The great man, no longer great, no longer in the eye of 
the world, out of politics because the charmed circle had 
closed, and no more named for high places because his record 
had made him impossible, had returned to the practice of 
law. Eminent by his ability, his achievement, and his blood, 
but only a private citizen, the shadow of his failure lay 
heavy on his life and showed clearly in his handsome face. 
That noble position which he had missed, so dear to heart 
and imagination, haunted his moments of leisure and 
mocked his dreams. He had borne the disappointment 
bravely, had lightly called it the luck of politics. Now 
that the past lay in clear perspective, he recognized his 
own madness. 

He had fought with destiny like a fool, had stood in the 
path of a people to whom God had given the chance which 
the rulers of the earth denied them ; and this people, 
through a youth carrying the sling of David, had ruined 
him. He had no feeling against Birmingham, nor against 
Arthur Dillon. The torrent, not the men, had des- 
troyed him. Yet he had learned nothing. With a fair 
chance he would have built another dam the next morning. 
He was out of the race forever. In the English mission he 
had touched the highest mark of his success. He mourned 
in quiet. Life had still enough for him, but oh ! the 
keenness of his regret. 

Sonia’s story he had heard before, at the beginning of the 
search, as a member of the Endicott family. The details 
had never reached him. The cause of Horace Endicott’s 
flight he had forgotten. Edith in her present costume 
remained unknown, nor did she enlighten him. Her 
thought as she studied him was of Dillon’s luck in his 
enterprises. Behold three of his victims. Sonia repeated 
for the lawyer the story of her husband’s disappearance, 
and of the efforts to find him. 


312 


“ At last I think that I have found him,” was her con- 
clusion, “ in the person of a man known in this city as 
Arthur Dillon.” 

Livingstone started slightly. However, there must be 
many Arthur Dillons, the Irish being so numerous, and 
tasteless in the matter of names. When she described her 
particular Arthur his astonishment became boundless at 
the absurdity of the supposition. 

“ You have fair evidence I suppose that he is Horace 
Endicott, madam ?” 

“ I am sorry to tell you that I have none, because the 
statement makes one feel so foolish. On the contrary the 
search of a clever detective . . . he’s really clever, isn’t 
he, Edith? . . . shows that Dillon is just what he appears 
to be, the son of Mrs. Anne Dillon. The whole town 
believes he is her son. The people who knew him since 
he was born declare him to be the very image of his 
father. Still, I think that he is Horace Endicott. Why 
I think so, . . . Edith, my dear, it is your turn now. 
Do explain to the lawyer.” 

Livingstone wondered as the dancer spoke where that 
beautiful voice and fluent English had become familiar. 
Sister Claire had passed from his mind with all the minor 
episodes of his political intrigues. He could not find her 
place in his memory. Her story won him against his 
judgment. The case, well put, found strength in the 
contention that the last move had not been made, since the 
three most important characters in the play had not been 
put to the question. 

His mind ran over the chief incidents in that remarkable 
fight which Arthur Dillon had waged in behalf of his 
people : the interview before the election of Birmingham, 
the intrigues in London, the dexterous maneuvers which 
had wrecked the campaign against the Irish, had silenced 
McMeeter, stunned the Bishop, banished Fritters, ruined 
Sister Claire, tumbled him from his lofty position, and 
cut off his shining future. How frightful the thought 
that this wide ruin might have been wrought by an Endi- 
cott, one of his own blood ! 

“ A woman’s instincts are admirable,” he said, politely 
and gravely, “and they have led you admirably in this 
case. But in face of three facts, the failure of the detect- 
ive, the declaration of Mr. Dillon, and your failure to 


313 


recognize your husband after five years, it would be absurd 
to persist in the belief that this young man is your hus- 
band. Moreover there are intrinsic difficulties, which 
would tell even if you had made out a good case for the 
theory. No Endicott would take up intimate connection 
with the Irish. He would not know enough about them, 
he could not endure them ; his essence would make the 
scheme, even if it were presented to him by others, impos- 
sible. One has only to think of two or three main difficul- 
ties to feel and see the utter absurdity of the whole thing.” 

“No doubt,” replied Sonia sweetly. “ Yet I am deter- 
mined not to miss this last opportunity to find my husband. 
If it fails I shall get my divorce, and . . . bother with 
the matter no more.” 

Edith smiled faintly at the suggestive pause, and mur- 
mured the intended phrase, “ marry Quincy Lenox.” 

“ Very well,” said the lawyer. “ You have only to begin 
divorce proceedings here, issue a summons for the real 
Horace Endicott, and serve the papers on Mr. Arthur 
Dillon. You must be prepared for many events however. 
The whole business will be ventilated in the journals. 
The disappearance will come up again, and be described 
in the light of this new sensation. Mr. Dillon is eminent 
among his people, and well known in this city. It will be 
a year’s wonder to have him sued in a divorce case, to 
have it made known that he is supposed to be Horace 
Endicott.” 

“ That is unavoidable,” Edith prompted, seeing a sudden 
shrinking on the part of Sonia. “ Do not forget, sir, that 
all Mrs. Endicott wants is the sworn declaration of Arthur 
Dillon that he is not Horace Endicott, of his mother that 
he is her son, of Father O’Donnell that he knows nothing 
of Horace Endicott since his disappearance.” 

“ You would not like the case to come to trial ?” said 
the lawyer to Sonia. 

“ I must get my divorce,” she answered coolly, “ whether 
this is the right man or no.” 

“ Let me tell you what may happen after the summons, 
or notice, is served on Mr. Dillon,” said the lawyer. “ The 
serving can be done so quietly that for some time no others 
but those concerned need know about it. I shall assume 
that Mr. Dillon is not Horace Endicott. In that case he 
can ignore the summons, which is not for him, but for 


314 


another man. He need never appear. If you insisted on 
his appearance, you would have to offer some evidence that 
he is really Horace Endicott. This you cannot do. He 
could make affidavit that he is not the man. By that 
time the matter would be public property, and he could 
strike back at you for the scandal, the annoyance, and the 
damage done to his good name.” 

“ What I want is to have his declaration under oath that 
he is not Horace. If he is Horace he will never swear to 
anything but the truth.” 

For the first time Sonia showed emotion, tears dropped 
from her lovely eyes, and the lawyer wondered what folly 
had lost to her husband so sweet a creature. Evidently 
she admired one of Horace’s good qualities. 

“ You can get the declaration in that way. To please 
you, he might at my request make affidavit without pub- 
licity and scenes at court.” 

“ 1 would prefer the court,” said Sonia firmly. 

“ She’s afeared the lawyer suspects her virtue,” Edith 
said to herself. 

“ Let me now assume that Arthur Dillon is really 
Horace Endicott,” continued Livingstone. “He must be 
a consummate actor to play his part so well and so long. 
He can play the part in this matter also, by ignoring the 
summons, and declaring simply that he is not the man. 
In that case he leaves himself open to punishment, for if 
he should thereafter be proved to be Horace Endicott, the 
court could punish him for contempt. Or, he can answer 
the summons by his lawyer, denying the fact, and stating 
his readiness to swear that he is not any other than Arthur 
Dillon. You would then have to prove that he is Horace 
Endicott, which you cannot do. ” 

“All I want is the declaration under oath,” Sonia 
repeated. 

“ And you are ready for any ill consequences, the resent- 
ment and suit of Mr. Dillon, for instance ? Understand, 
my dear lady, that suit for divorce is not a trifling matter 
for Mr. Dillon, if he is not Endicott.” 

“ Particularly as he is about to marry a very handsome 
woman,” Edith interjected, heedless of the withering 
glance from Sonia. 

“ Ah, indeed ! ” 

“ Then I think some way ought to be planned to get 


315 


Anne Dillon and the priest into court/’ Edith suggested. 
“ Under oath they might give us some hint of the way to 
find Horace Endicott. The priest knows something about 
him.” 

“ I shall be satisfied if Arthur Dillon swears that he is 
not Horace,” Sonia said, “and then I shall get my divorce 
and wash my hands of the tiresome case. It has cost me 
too much money and worry.” 

“ Was there any reason alleged for the remarkable dis- 
appearance of the young man ? I knew his father and 
mother very well, and admired them. I saw the boy in his 
schooldays, never afterwards. You have a child, I under- 
stand.” 

Edith lowered her eyes and looked out of the window on 
the busy street. 

“ It is for my child’s sake that I have kept up the 
search,” Sonia answered with maternal tenderness. “ In- 
sanity is supposed to be the cause. Horace acted strangely 
for three months before his disappearance, he grew quite 
thin, and was absent most of the time. As it was summer, 
which I spent at the shore with friends, I hardly noticed 
his condition. It was only when he had gone, without 
warning, taking considerable money with him, that 1 
recalled his queer behavior. Since then not a scrap of 
information, not a trace, nor a hint of him, has ever come 
back to me. The detectives did their best until this 
moment. All has failed.” 

“Very sad,” Livingstone said, touched by the hopeless 
tone. “ Well, as you wish it then, I shall bring suit for 
divorce and alimony against Horace Endicott, and have 
the papers served on Arthur Dillon. He can ignore them 
or make his reply. In either case he must be brought to 
make affidavit that he is not the man you look for.” 

“ And the others ? The priest and Mrs. Dillon ? ” 
asked Edith. 

“ They are of no consequence,” was Sonia’s opinion. 

After settling unimportant details the two women de- 
parted. Livingstone found the problem which they had 
brought to his notice fascinating. He had always marked 
Arthur Dillon among his associates, as an able and 
peculiar young man, he had been attracted by him, and 
had listened to his speeches with more consideration than 
most young men deserved. His amazing success in deal- 


316 


ing with a Livingstone, his audacity and nerve in attack- 
ing the policy which he brought to nothing, were more 
wonderful to the lawyer than to the friends of Dillon, who 
had not seen the task in its entirety. 

And this peculiar fellow was thought to be an Endicott, 
of his own family, of the English blood, more Irish than 
the Irish, bitterer towards him than the priests had been. 
The very impossibility of the thing made it charming. 
What course of thought, what set of circumstances, could 
turn the Pnritan mind in the Celtic direction ? Was 
there such genius in man to convert one personality into 
another so neatly that the process remained undiscover- 
able, not to be detected by the closest observation ? He 
shook off the fascination. These two women believed it, 
but he knew that no Endicott could ever be converted. 


317 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Arthur’s appeal. 

Suit was promptly began by Livingstone on behalf of 
Sonia for a divorce from Horace Endicott. Before the 
papers had been fully made out, even before the officer 
had been instructed to serve them on Arthur Dillon, the 
lawyer received an evening visit from the defendant him- 
self. As a suspicious act he welcomed it ; but a single 
glance at the frank face and easy manner, when one knew 
the young man’s ability, disarmed suspicion. The lawyer 
studied closely, for the first time with interest, the man 
who might yet prove to be his kinsman. He saw a form 
inclined to leanness, a face that might have been hand- 
some but for the sunken cheeks, dark and expressive eyes 
whose natural beauty faded in the dark circles around 
them, a fine head with dead black hair, and a handsome 
beard, streaked with gray. His dress, gentleman-like but 
of a strange fashion, the lawyer did not recognize as the 
bachelor costume of Cherry Hill prepared by his own 
tailor. Nothing of the Endicott in face or manner, noth- 
ing tragical, the expression decorous and formal, perhaps 
a trifle quizzical, as this was their first meeting since the 
interview in London. 

“I have called to enter a protest,” Arthur began 
primly, “against the serving of the papers in the coming 
Endicott divorce case on your humble servant.” 

“ As the papers are to be served only on Horace Endi- 
cott, I fail to see how you have any right or reason to pro- 
test,” was the suave answer. 

“ I know all about the matter, sir, for very good rea- 
sons. For some months the movements of the two women 
concerned in this affair have been watched in my interest. 
Not long after they left you a few days ago, the result 
of their visit was made known to me. To anticipate the 


318 


disagreeable consequences of serving the papers on me, I 
have not waited. I appeal to you not only as the lawyer 
of Mrs. Endicott, but also as one much to blame for the 
new persecution which is about to fall upon me.” 

“ I recognize the touch,” said Livingstone, unable to 
resist a smile. “ Mr. Dillon must be audacious or 
nothing.” 

“ I am quite serious,” Arthur replied. “ You know 
part of the story, what Mrs. Endicott chose to tell you, 
but I can enlighten you still more. 1 appeal to you, as 
the lady's lawyer, to hinder her from doing mischief ; and 
again I appeal to you as one to blame in part for the 
threatened annoyances. But for the lady who accom- 
panied Mrs. Endicott, I would not be suspected of relation- 
ship with your honored family. But for the discipline 
which I helped to procure for that lady, she would have 
left me in peace. But for your encouragement of the 
lady, I would not have been forced to subject a woman to 
discipline. You may remember the effective Sister 
Claire ? ” 

So true was the surprise that Livingstone blushed with 
sudden violence. 

“ That woman was the so-called escaped nun ? ” he ex- 
claimed. 

“Now Mrs. Curran, wife of the detective employed by 
Mrs. Endicott for five years to discover her lost husband. 
She satisfies her noblest aspirations by dancing in the 
theaters, . . . and a very fine dancer she is. Her leisure 
is devoted to plotting vengeance on me. She pretends to 
believe that I am Horace Endicott ; perhaps she does be- 
lieve it. Anyway she knows that persecution will result, 
and she has persuaded Mrs. Endicott to inaugurate it. I 
do not know if you were her selection to manage the 
case.” 

This time Livingstone did not blush, being prepared 
for any turn of mood and speech from this singular young 
man. 

“ As the matter was described to me,” he said, “only a 
sentimental reason included you in the divorce proceed- 
ings. 1 can understand Mrs. Curran’s feelings, and to 
what they would urge a woman of that character. Still, 
her statements here were very plausible.” 

“ Undoubtedly. She made her career up to this mo- 


319 


merit on the plausible. Let me tell you, if it is not too 
tedious, how she has pursued this theory in the face of all 
good sense.” 

The lawyer bowed his permission. 

“ I am of opinion that the creature is half mad, or sub- 
ject to fits of insanity. Her husband had talked much of 
the Endicott case, which was not good for a woman of her 
peculiarities. By inspiration, insane suggestion, she as- 
sumed that I was the man sought for, and built up the 
theory as you have heard. First, she persuaded her good- 
natured husband, with whom I am acquainted, to investi- 
gate among my acquaintances for the merest suspicion, 
doubt, of my real personality. A long and minute inquiry, 
the details of which are in writing in my possession, was 
made by the detective with one result : that no one 
doubted me to be what I was born.” 

Livingstone cast a look at him to see the expression 
which backed that natural and happy phrase. Arthur 
Dillon might have borne it. 

“ She kept at her husband, however, until he had tried 
to surprise my relatives, my friends, my nurse, and my 
mother, . . . yes, even my confessor, into admissions 
favorable to her mad dream. My rooms, my papers, my 
habits, my secrets were turned inside out ; Mrs. Endicott 
was brought on from Boston to study me in my daily life ; 
for days I was watched by the three. In the detective s 
house I was drugged into a profound sleep, and for ten 
minutes the two women examined my sleeping face for 
signs of Horace Endicott. When all these things failed, 
Sister Claire dragged her unwilling husband to California, 
where I had spent ten years of my life, and tried hard to 
find another Arthur Dillon, or to disconnect me with my- 
self. She proved to her own satisfaction that these things 
could not be done. But there is a devil of perversity in 
her. She is like a boa constrictor ... I think that's the 
snake which cannot let go its prey once it has seized it. 
She can’t let go. In desperation she is risking her own 
safety and happiness to make public her belief that I am 
Horace Endicott. In spite of the overwhelming proofs 
against the theory, and in favor of me, she is bent on 
bringing the case into court.” 

“ Kisking her own safety and happiness ? ” Livingstone 
repeated. 

22 


320 


“If the wild geese among the Irish could locate Sister 
Claire, who is supposed to have fled the town long ago, her 
life would be taken. If this suit continues she will have 
to leave the city forever. Knowing this the devil in her 
urges her to her own ruin.” 

“ You have kept close track of her,” said Livingstone. 

“ You left me no choice,” was the reply, “ having 
sprung the creature on us, and then thrown her off when 
you found out her character. If she had only turned on 
her abettors and wracked them I wouldn’t have cared.” 

“You protest then against the serving of these papers 
on you. Would it not be better to settle forever the last 
doubts in so peculiar a matter ? ” 

“ What have I to do with the doubts of an escaped nun, 
and of Mrs. Endicott ? Must I go to court and stand the 
odium of a shameful imputation to settle the doubts of a 
lunatic criminal and a woman whose husband fled from 
her with his entire fortune ?” 

“It is regrettable,” the lawyer admitted with surprise. 
“ As Mrs. Endicott is perhaps the most deeply interested, 
I fear that the case must go on. ” 

“ I have come to show you that it will not be to the in- 
terest of the two women that it should go on. In fact I 
feel quite certain that you will not serve those papers on 
me after I have laid a few facts before you.” 

“ I shall be glad to examine them in the interest of my 
client.” 

“ Having utterly failed to prove me other than I am,” 
Arthur said easily, while the lawyer watched with in- 
creasing interest the expressive face, “ these women have 
accepted your suggestion to put me under oath as to my 
own personality. I would not take affidavit,” and his con- 
tempt was evident. “ I am not going to permit any public 
or official attempt to cast doubt on my good name. You 
can understand the feeling. My mother and my friends 
are not accustomed to the atmosphere of courts, nor of 
scandal. It would mean severe suffering for them to be 
dragged into so sensational a trial. The consequences 
one cannot measure beforehand. The unpleasantness 
lives after all the parties are dead. Since I can prevent 
it I am going to do it. As far as I am concerned Mrs. 
Endicott must be content with a simple denial, or a simple 
affirmation rather, that I am Arthur Dillon, and there- 


321 


fore not her husband. It is more than she deserves, be- 
cause there is not a shred of evidenee to warrant her 
making a single move against me. She has not been 
able to find in me a feature resembling her husband.” 

“Then, you are prepared to convince Mrs. Endicott 
that she has more to lose than to gain by bringing you 
into her divorce suit ? ” 

“ Precisely. Here is the point for her to consider : if 
the papers in this suit are served upon me, then there 
will be no letting-up afterward. Her affairs, the affairs 
of this woman Curran, the lives of both to the last detail, 
will be served up to the court and the public. You know 
how that can be done. I would rather not have it done, 
but I proffer Mrs. Endicott the alternative.” 

“ I do not know how strong an argument that would 
be with Mrs. Endicott,” said Livingstone with interest. 

“ She is too shallow a woman to perceive its strength, 
unless you, as her lawyer and kinsman, make it plain to 
her,” was the guileless answer. “ Mrs. Curran knows 
nothing of court procedure, but she is clever enough to 
foresee consequences, and her history before her New 
York fiasco includes bits of romance from the lives of im- 
portant people.” 

Livingstone resisted the inclination to laugh, and then 
to get angry. 

“ You think then, that if Mrs. Endicott could be made 
to see the possibilities of a desperate trial, the possible ex- 
posures of her sins and the sins of others, that she would 
not risk it ? ” 

“ She has family pride,” said Arthur seriously, “ and 
would not care to expose her own to scorn. I presume you 
know something about the Endicott disappearance ? ” 

“ Nothing more than the fact, and the failure to find 
the young man ? ” 

“ His wife employed the detective Curran to make the 
search for Endicott, and Curran is a Fenian, as interested 
as myself in such matters. He was with me in the little 
enterprise which ended so fatally for Ledwith and . . . 
others.” Livingstone was too sore on this subject to 
smile at the pause and the word. “ Curran told me the 
details after he had left the pursuit of Endicott. They 
are known now to Mrs. Endicott’s family in part. It is 
understood that she will marry her cousin Quincy Lenox 


322 


when she gets a divorce. He was devoted to her before 
her marriage and is faithful still, I am told.” 

Not a sign of feeling in the utterance of these signifi- 
cant words ! 

“It is not affection, then, which prompts the actions 
of my client ? She wishes to make sure of the existence 
or non-existence of her husband before entering upon this 
other marriage ? ” 

“ Of course I can tell you only what the detective and 
one other told us,” Arthur said. “ When Horace Endi- 
cott disappeared, it is said, he took with him his entire 
fortune, something over a million, leaving not one cent 
to his wife. He had converted his property into cash se- 
cretly. Her anxiety to find him is very properly to get 
her lawful share in that property, that is, alimony with 
her divorce ? ” 

“I see,” said Livingstone, and he began to understand 
the lines and shadows on this young man’s face. “A 
peculiar, and I suppose thorough, revenge.” 

“If the papers are served on me, you understand, then 
in one fashion or another Mrs. Endicott shall be brought 
to court, and Quincy Lenox too, with the detective and 
his wife, and a few others. It is almost too much that 
you have been made acquainted with the doubts of these 
people. I bear with it, but I shall not endure one degree 
more of publicity. Once it is known that I am thought 
to be Horace Endicott, then the whole world must know 
quite as thoroughly that I am Arthur Dillon ; and also 
who these people are that so foolishly pursue me. It can- 
not but appear to the average crowd that this new 
form of persecution is no more than an outgrowth of 
the old.” 

Then they glared at each other mildly, for the passions 
of yesterday were still warm. Livingstone’s mood had 
changed, however. He felt speculatively certain that 
Horace Endicott sat before him, and he knew Sonia to be 
a guilty woman. As his mind flew over the humiliating 
events which connected him with Dillon, consolation 
soothed his wounded heart that he had been overthrown 
perhaps by one of his own, rather than by the Irish. The 
unknown element in the contest had given victory to the 
lucky side. He recalled his sense of this young fellow’s 
superiority to his environment. He tried to fathom 


323 


Arthur’s motive in this visit, but failed. As a matter of 
fact Arthur was merely testing the thoroughness of his 
own disappearance. His visit to Livingstone the real Dil- 
lon would have made. It would lead the lawyer to believe 
that Sonia, in giving up her design, had been moved by 
his advice and not by a quiet, secret conversation with her 
husband. Livingstone quickly made up his mind that 
the divorce suit would have to be won by default, but he 
wished to learn more of this daring and interesting kins- 
man. 

“ The decision must remain with Mrs. Endicott,” he 
said after a pause. “ I shall tell her, before your name 
is mixed up with the matter, just what she must expect. 
If she has anything to fear from a public trial you are 
undoubtedly the man to bring it out.” 

“Thank you.” 

“ I might even use persuasion . . .” 

“ It would be a service to the Endicott family,” Arthur 
said earnestly, “ for I can swear to you that the truth 
will come out, the scandal which Horace Endicott fled to 
avoid and conceal forever.” 

“ Did you know Endicott ? ” 

“ Very well indeed. I was his guide in California every 
time he made a trip to that country.” 

“ I might persuade Mrs. Endicott,” said the lawyer 
with deeper interest, “for the sake of the family name, to 
surrender her foolish theory. It is quite clear to any one 
with unbiased judgment that you are not Horace Endicott, 
even if you are not Arthur Dillon. I knew the young 
man slightly, and his family very well. I can see myself 
playing the part which you have presented to us for the 
past five years, quite as naturally as Horace Endicott 
would have played it. It was not in Horace’s nature, nor 
in the Endicott nature to turn Irish so completely.” 

Arthur felt all the bitterness and the interest which this 
shot implied. 

“ I had the pleasure of knowing Endicott well, much 
better than you, sir,” he returned warmly, “and while I 
know he was something of a good-natured butterfly, I can 
say something for his fairness and courage. If he had 
known what I know of the Irish, of their treatment by 
their enemies at home and here, of English hypocrisy and 
American meanness, of their banishment from the land 


324 


God gave them and your attempt to drive them out of 
New York or to keep them in the gutter, he would have 
taken up their cause as honestly as I have done.” 

“ You are always the orator, Mr. Endi . . . Dillon.” 

“ I have feeling, which is rare in the world,” said Ar- 
thur smiling. “ Do you know what this passion for justice 
has done for me, Mr. Livingstone ? It has brought out 
in me the eloquence which you have praised, and inspired 
the energy, the deviltry, the trickery, the courage, that 
were used so finely at your expense. 

“ 1 was like Endicott, a wild irresponsible creature, 
thinking only of my own pleasure. Out of my love for 
one country which is not mine, out of a study of the 
wrongs heaped upon the Irish by a civilized people, I have 
secured the key to the conditions of the time. I have 
learned to despise and pity the littleness of your party, to 
recognize the shams of the time everywhere, the utter 
hypocrisy of those in power. 

* “ I have pledged myself to make war on them as I made 
war on you ; on the power that, mouthing liberty, holds 
Ireland in slavery ; on the powers that, mouthing order 
and peace, hold down Poland, maintain Turkey, rob and 
starve India, loot the helpless wherever they may. I was 
a harmless hypocrite and mostly a fool once. Time and 
hardship and other things, chiefly Irish and English, have 
given me a fresh start in the life of thought. You hardly 
understand this, being thoroughly English in your 
make-up. 

“You love good Protestants, pagans who hate the Pope, 
all who bow to England, and that part of America which 
is English. You can blow about their rights and liber- 
ties, and denounce their persecutors, if these happen to 
be French or Dutch or Russian. For a Pole or an Irish- 
man you have no sympathy, and you would deny him any 
place on the earth but a grave. Liberty is not for him 
unless he ’becomes a good English Protestant at the same 
time. In other words liberty may be the proper sauce for 
the English goose but not for the Irish gander.” 

“I suppose it appears that way to you,” said Living- 
stone, who had listened closely, not merely to the senti- 
ments, but to the words, the tone, the idiom. Could 
Horace Endicott have ever descended to this view of his 
world, this rawness of thought, sentiment, and expression ? 


325 


So peculiarly Irish, anti-English, rich with tfte flavor of 
the Fourth Ward, and nevertheless most interesting. 

“ I shall not argue the point,” he continued. “ I judge 
from your earnestness that you have a well-marked ambi- 
tion in life, and that you will follow it.” 

“ My present ambition is to see our grand cathedral 
completed and dedicated as soon as possible, as the loudest 
word we can speak to you about our future. But I fear 
I am detaining you. If during the next few days the 
papers in the divorce case are not served on me, I may 
feel certain that Mrs. Endicott has given up the idea of 
including me in the suit ? ” 

“ I shall advise her to leave you in peace for the sake of 
the Endicott name,” said Livingstone politely. 

Arthur thanked him and departed, while the lawyer 
spent an hour enjoying his impressions and vainly trying 
to disentangle the Endicott from the Dillon in this ex- 
traordinary man 


326 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE END OF MISCHIEF. 

Arthur set out for the Curran household, where he 
was awaited with anxiety. Quite cheerful over his com- 
mand of the situation, and inclined to laugh at the mixed 
feelings of Livingstone, he felt only reverence and awe 
before the human mind as seen in the light of his own 
experience. His particular mind had once been Horace 
Endicott’s, but now represented the more intense and 
emotional personality of Arthur Dillon. He was neither 
Horace, nor the boy who had disappeared ; but a new being 
fashioned after the ideal Arthur Dillon, as Horace Endi- 
cott had conceived him. What he had been seemed no 
more a part of his past, but a memory attached to another 
man. All hi3 actions proved it. 

The test of his disappearance delighted him. He had 
gone through its various scenes with little emotion, with 
less than Edith had displayed ; far less than Arthur Dillon 
would have felt and shown. Who can measure the mind ? 
Itself the measure of man’s knowledge, the judge in the 
court of human destiny, how feeble its power over itself ! 
A few years back this mind directed Horace Endicott ; to- 
day it cheerfully served the conscience of Arthur Dillon ! 

Edith and her husband awaited their executioner. The 
detective suffered for her rather than himself. From 
Dillon he had nothing to fear, and for his sake, also for 
the strange regard he had always kept for Curran’s wife, 
Arthur had been kind when harshness would have done 
more good. Now the end had come for her and Sonia. 
As the unexpected usually came from this young man, 
they had reason to feel apprehension. He took his seat 
comfortably in the familiar chair, and lit his cigar while 
chaffing her. 

i( They who love the danger shall perish in it,” he said 
fora beginning. ‘‘You court it, Colette, and not very 
wisely.” 


327 


“How, not wisely?” she asked with a pretence of 
boldness. 

“You count on the good will of the people whom you 
annoy and wrong, and yet you have never any good will to 
give them in return. You have hated me and pursued me 
on the strength of my good will for you. It seems never 
to have occurred to you to do me a good turn for the many 
I have done for you. You are a bud of incarnate evil, 
Colette.” 

How she hated him when he talked in that fashion ! 

“ Well, it’s all settled. I have had the last talk with 
Livingstone, and spoiled your last trick against the com- 
fort of Arthur Dillon. There will be no dragging to court 
of the Dillon clan. Mr. Livingstone believes with me that 
the publicity would be too severe for Mrs. Endicott and 
her family, not to mention the minor revelations connected 
with yourself. So there’s the end of your precious tom- 
foolery, Colette.” 

She burst into vehement tears. 

“ But you weep too soon,” he protested. “ I have saved 
you as usual from yourself, but only to inflict my own 
punishment. Don’t weep those crocodile diamonds until 
you have heard your own sentence. Of course you know 
that I have followed every step you took in this matter. 
You are clever enough to have guessed that. You dis- 
covered all that was to be discovered, of course. But you 
are too keen. If this trial had come to pass you would 
have been on the witness stand, and the dogs would have 
caught the scent then never to lose it. You would have 
ruined your husband as well as yourself.” 

“ Why do you let him talk to me so ?” she screamed at 
Curran. 

“ Because it is for your good,” Arthur answered. “ But 
here’s briefness. You must leave New York at once, and 
forever. Get as far from it as you can, and stay there 
while I am alive. And for consolation in your exile take 
your child with you, your little boy, whom Mrs. Endicott 
parades as her little son, the heir of her beloved Horace.” 

A frightful stillness fell in the room with this terrific 
declaration. But for pity he could have laughed, at the 
paralysis which seized both the detective and his wife. 
Edith sat like a statue, white-faced, pouting at him, hei 
hands clasped in her lap. 


328 


“ Well, are you surprised ? You, the clever one ? If I 
am Horace Endicott, as you pretend to believe, do I not 
know the difference between my own child and another’s ? 
Iam Arthur Dillon only, and yet I know how you con- 
spired with Mrs. Endicott to provide her with an heir for 
the Endicott money. You did this in spite of your hus- 
band, who has never been able to control you, not even 
when you chose to commit so grave a crime. Now, it is 
absolutely necessary for the child’s sake that you save him 
from Mrs. Endicott’s neglect, when he is of no further 
use to her. She loves children, as you know.” 

“ Who are you, anyway?” Curran burst out hoarsely 
after a while. 

“ Not half as good a detective as you are, but I happen 
in this matter to be on the inside,” Arthur answered 
cheerfully. u I knew Horace Endicott much better than 
his wife or his friends. The poor fellow is dead and gone, 
and yet he left enough information behind him to trouble 
the clever people. Are you satisfied, Colette, that this 
time everything must be done as I have ordered ? ” 

“ You have proved yourself Horace Endicott,” she 
gasped in her rage, burning with hate, mortification, 
shame, fifty tigerish feelings that could not find expression. 

“ Fie, fie, Colette ! You have proved that I am Arthur 
Dillon. Why go back on your own work ? If you had 
known Horace Endicott as I did, you would not compare 
the meek and civilized Dillon with the howling demon into 
which his wife turned him. That fellow would not have sat 
in your presence ten minutes knowing that you had palmed 
off your child as his, without taking your throat in his 
hands for a death squeeze. His wife would not have es- 
caped death from the madman had he ever encountered 
her. Here are your orders now ; it is late and I must not 
keep you from your beauty sleep ; take the child as soon 
as the Endicott woman sends him to you, and leave New 
York one hundred miles behind you. If you are found in 
this city any time after the month of September, you take 
all the risks. I shall not stand between you and justice 
again. You are the most ungrateful sinner that I have 
ever dealt with. Now go and weep for yourself. Don’t 
waste any tears on Mrs. Endicott.” 

Sobbing like an angry and humiliated child, Edith 
rushed out of the room. Curran felt excessively foolish. 


329 


Though partly in league with Arthur, the present situa- 
tion went beyond him. 

“Be hanged if I don’t feel like demanding an explana- 
tion,” he said awkwardly. 

a Ypu don’t need it,” said Arthur as he proceeded to 
make it. “ Can’t you see that Horace Endicott is acting 
through me, and has been from the first, to secure the things 
I have secured. He is dead as I told you. How he got 
away, kept himself hid, and all that, you are as good an 
authority as I. While he was alive you could have found 
him as easily as I could, but he was beyond search always, 
though I guess not beyond betrayal. Well, let me con- 
gratulate you on getting your little family together again. 
Don’t worry over what has happened to-night. Drop the 
Endicott case. You can see there’s no luck in it for any 
one.” 

Certainly there had oeen no luck in it for the Currans. 
Arthur went to his club in the best humor, shaking with 
laughter over the complete crushing of Edith, with whom 
he felt himself quite even in the contest that had endured 
so long. Next morning it would be Sonia’s turn. Ah, 
what a despicable thing is man’s love, how unstable and 
profitless ! No wonder Honora valued it so lightly. How 
Hoface Endicott had raved over this whited sepulcher five 
years ago, believed in her, sworn by her virtue and truth ! 
And to-day he regarded her without feeling, neither love 
nor hate, perfect indifference only marking his mental 
attitude in her regard. Somehow one liked to feel that 
love is unchangeable, as with the mother, the father ; as 
with God also, for whom sin does not change relationship 
with the sinner. 

When he stood before her the next day in the hotel 
parlor, she reminded him in her exquisite beauty of a play 
seen from the back of the stage ; the illusion so successful 
with the audience is there an exposed sham, without coher- 
ence, and without beauty. Her eyes had a scared look. 
She had to say to herself, if this is Horace then my time 
has come, if it is Arthur Dillon I have nothing to worry 
about, before her hate came to her aid and gave her courage. 
She murmured the usual formula of unexpected pleasure. 
He bowed, finding no pleasure in this part of his revenge. 
Arthur Dillon could not have been more considerate of 
Messalina. 


330 


“It is certainly a privilege and an honor/’ said he, “to 
be snspected of so charming a relationship with Mrs. En- 
dicott. Nevertheless I have persuaded your lawyer, Mr. 
Livingstone, that it would be unprofitable and imprudent 
to bring me into the suit for divorce. He will so advise 
you I think to-day.” 

She smiled at the compliment and felt reassured. 

“ There were some things which I could not tell the 
lawyer,” he went on, “ and so I made bold to call on you 
personally. It is disagreeable, what I must tell you. My 
only apology is that you yourself have made this visit nec- 
essary by bringing my name into the case.” 

Her smile died away, and her face hardened. She pre- 
pared herself for trouble. 

“ I told your lawyer that if the papers were served on 
me, and a public and official doubt thrown on my right to 
the name of Arthur Dillon, I would not let the business 
drop until the Endicott-Curran-Dillon mystery had been 
thoroughly ventilated in the courts. He agreed with me 
that this would expose the Endicott name to scandal.” 

“We have been perhaps too careful from the beginning 
about the Endicott name,” she said severely. “ Which is 
the reason why no advance has been made in the search for 
my dear husband.” 

“ That may be true, Mrs. Endicott. You must not for- 
get, however, that you will be a witness, and Mrs. Curran, 
and her husband, and Mr. Quincy Lenox, and others be- 
sides. How do you think these people would stand ques- 
tioning as to who your little boy, called Horace Endicott, 
really is ? ” 

She sat prepared for a dangerous surprise, but not for 
this horror ; and the life left her on the spot, for the poor 
weed was as soft and cowardly as any other product of the 
swamp. He rang for restoratives and sent for her maid. 
In ten minutes, somewhat restored, she faced the ordeal, if 
only to learn what this terrible man knew. 

“ Who are you ?” she asked feebly, the same question 
asked by Curran in his surprise. 

“A friend of Horace Endicott,” he answered quietly. 

“ And what do you know of us ? ” 

“ All that Horace knew.” 

She could not summon courage to put a third question. 
He came to her aid. 


331 


“ Perhaps you are not sure about what Horace knew ? 
Shall I tell you ? I did not tell your lawyer. I only hinted 
that the truth would be brought out if my name was dragged 
into the case against my protest. Shall I tell you what 
Horace knew ?” 

With closed eyes she made a sign of acquiescence. 

“ He knew of your relations with Quincy Lenox. He 
saw you together on a certain night, when he arrived home 
after a few days’ absence. He also heard your conversation. 
In this you admitted that out of hatred for your husband 
you had destroyed his heir before the child was born. He 
knew your plan of retrieving that blunder by adopting the 
child of Edith Curran, and palming him off as your own. 
He knew of your plan to secure the good will of his Aunt 
Lois for the impostor, and found the means to inform his 
aunt of the fraud. All that he knew will be brought out 
at any trial in which my name shall be included. Your 
lawyer will tell you that it cannot be avoided. Therefore, 
when your lawyer advises you to get a divorce from your 
former husband without including me as that husband, 
you had better accept that advice.” 

She opened her eyes and stared at him with insane fright. 
Who but Horace Endicott could know her crimes ? All 
but the crime which he had named her blunder. Could this 
passionless stranger, this Irish politician, looking at her as 
indifferently as the judge on the bench, be Horace ? A T o, 
surely no ! Because that fool, dolt though he was, would 
never have seen this wretched confession of her crimes, 
and not slain her the next minute. Into this ambuscade 
had she been led by the crazy wife of Curran, whose sound 
advice she herself had thrown aside to follow the instincts 
of Edith. Recovering her nerve quickly, she began her 
retreat as well as one might after so disastrous a field. 

“ It was a mistake to have disturbed you, Mr. Dillon,” 
she said. “ You may rest assured that no further attempt 
will be made on your good name. Since you pretend to 
such intimacy with my unfortunate husband I would like 
to ask you. ...” 

“ That was the extent of my intimacy, Mrs. Endicott, 
and I would never have revealed it except to defend my- 
self,” he interrupted suavely. “ Of course the revelation 
brings consequences. You must arrange to have your little 
Horace die properly in some remote country, surround his 


332 


funeral with all the legal formalities, and so on. That 
will be easy. Meanwhile you can return the boy to his 
mother, who is ready to receive him. Then your suit for 
divorce must continue, and you will win it by default, that 
is, by the failure of Horace Endicott to defend his side. 
When these things are done, it would be well for your 
future happiness to lay aside further meddling with the 
mystery of your husband’s disappearance.” 

“I have learned a lesson,” she said more composedly. 
“ I shall do as you command, because I feel sure it is a 
command. I have some curiosity however about the life 
which Horace led after he disappeared. Since you must 
have known him a little, would it be asking too much from 
you. . .” 

She lost her courage at sight of his expression. Her 
voice faded. Oh, shallow as any frog-pond, indecently 
shallow, to ask such a question of the judge who had just 
ordered her to execution. His contempt silenced her. 
With a formal apology for having caused her so much 
pain, he bowed and withdrew. Some emotion had stirred 
him during the interview, but he had kept himself well 
under control. Later he found it was horror, ever to have 
been linked with a monster ; and dread too that in a 
sudden access of passion he might have done her to death. 
It seemed natural and righteous to strike and destroy the 
reptile. 


333 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

LOYE IS BLIND. 

Of these strange and stirring events no one knew but 
Arthur himself; nor of the swift consequences, the divorce 
of Sonia from her husband, her marriage to Quincy Lenox, 
the death and burial of her little boy in England, and the 
establishment of La Belle Colette and her son Horace in 
Chicago, where the temptation to annoy her enemies dis- 
appeared, and the risk to herself was practically removed 
forever. Thus faded the old life out of Arthur's view, its 
sin-stained personages frightened off the scene by his well- 
used knowledge of their crimes. Whatever doubt they held 
about his real character, self-interest accepted him as 
Arthur Dillon. 

Then came the surprise event, when Sonia died on her 
wedding-tour. Her death brought up once more the strange 
story of Horace Endicott’s disappearance. That gave him 
no concern. He was free. Honora saw the delight of that 
freedom in his loving and candid expression. He repressed 
his feelings no more, no longer bound. 

The house began to echo with the singing of the inmates. 
Mona sang to the baby in an upper room, the Deacon 
thrummed the piano and hummed to himself. Judy in the 
kitchen meditatively crooned to her maids an ancient lam- 
entation, and out on the lawn, Arthur sang to his mother 
an amorous ditty. Honora, the song-bird, silent, heard 
with amusement this sudden lifting up of voices, each un- 
conscious of the other. 

“Has the house gone mad?” she inquired from the 
hallway stairs, so clearly that the singers paused to hear. 
“ What is the meaning of all his uproar of song ? ” 

The criminals began to laugh at the coincidence. 

“ I always sing to baby,” Mona screamed in justification. 

“I wasn't singing, I never sing,” Louis yelled from the 
parlor. 

“Mother drove me to it, ’’Arthur howled through the door. 

“I think the singin’ was betther nor the shoutin’,” Judy 
observed leaning out of the window. 

A new spirit illumined the old farmhouse. Love had 
entered it, and hope had followed close on his heels ; hope 
that Honora would never get to her beloved convent. 
They loved her so and him that with all their faith, their 


334 


love and respect for the convent life, gladly would they 
have seen her turn away from the holy doors into Arthur’s 
reverential arms. With the exception of Anne. So sarely 
had she become his mother that the thought of giving him 
up to any woman angered her. She looked coldly on 
Honora for having inspired him with a foolish passion. 

“ Come down, celestial goddess,” said Arthur gayly, 
“ and join the Deacon and me in a walk over the bluff, 
through the perfumed woods, down the loud-resounding 
shore. Put on rubbers, for the dew has no respect for the 
feet of such divinity.” 

They went off together in high spirits, and Mona came 
down to the veranda with the baby in her arms to look 
after them. Anne grieved at the sight of their intimacy. 

“ I have half a mind,” she said, “ to hurry Honora off to 
her convent, or to bring Sister Magdalen and the Mother 
Superior up here to strengthen her. If that boy has his 
way, he’ll marry her before Christmas. He has the ltfok of 
it in his eye.” 

“ And why shouldn’t he ? ” Mona asked. “ If she will 
have him, then she has no business with the convent, and 
it will be a good opportunity for her to test her vocation.” 

“ And what luck will there be in it for him ? ” said the 
mother bitterly. “ How wonld you feel if some hussy 
cheated Louis out of his priesthood, with blue eyes and 
golden hair and impudence ? If Arthur wants to marry 
after waiting so long, let him set eyes on women that ask 
for marriage. He’ll never have luck tempting a poor girl 
from the convent.” 

“ Little ye think o’ the luck,” said Judy, who had come 
out to have her morning word with the mistress. “ Weren’t 
ye goin’ into a convent yerself whin Pat Dillon kem along, 
an’ wid a wink tuk ye to church undher his arm. AiT is 
there a woman in the whole world that’s had greater luck 
than yerself ? ” 

“ Oh, I know you are all working for the same thing, 
all against me,” Anne said pettishly. 

“ Faith we are, and may the angels guide him and 
her to each other. Can’t a blind man see they wor made 
to be man an’ wife ? An’ I say it, knowin’ that the con- 
vent is the best place in the world for anny girl. I wish 
every girl that was born wint there. If they knew what 
is lyin’ in wait for thim whin they take up wid a man, 
there wouldn’t be convents enough to honld all that wud 


335 


be runnin’ to thim. But ye know as well as I do that the 
girls are not med for the convent, except the blessed 
few. 

Anne fled from the stream of Judy’s eloquence, and the 
old lady looked expressively at Mona. 

“ She’s afraid she’s goin’ to lose her Artie. Oh, these 
Irish mothers ! they’d kape a boy till his hairs were gray, 
an’ mek him belave it too, if they cud. I never saw but 
wan mother crazy to marry her son. That was Biddy 
Brady, that wint to school wid yer mother, an’ poor Mick- 
sheen was a born ijit, wid a lip hangin’like a sign, so’s ye 
cud hang an auction notice on it. Sure, the poor boy 
wudn’t lave his mother for Vanus herself, an’ the mother 
batin’ him out o’ the house every day, an’ he bawlin’ for 
fear the women wud get hould of him.” 

Honora had observed the happy change in Arthur, her 
knight of service, who had stood between her and danger, 
and had fought her battles with chivalry ; asking no re- 
ward, hinting at none, because she had already given him 
all, a sister’s love. What tenderness, what adoration, 
what service had he lavished on her, unmarred by act, or 
word, or hint ! God would surely reward him for his con- 
sideration. Walking through the scented woods she 
found it easy to tell them of the date fixed for her en- 
trance into the convent. Grand trees were marshalled 
along the path, supporting a roof of gold and green, 
where the sun fell strong on the heavy foliage. 

“ September,” said Arthur making a calculation. 
“ Why not wait until October and then shed your colors 
with the trees. I can see her,” he went on humorously, 
“ decorously arranging the black dress so that it will hang 
well, and not make her a fright altogether before the 
other women ; and getting a right tilt to the black bonnet 
and enough lace in it to set off her complexion.” 

“ Six months later,” said the Deacon taking up the 
strain, “she will do better than that. Discarding the 
plain robes of the postulant, she will get herself into the 
robes of a bride. ...” 

“ Oh, sooner than that,” said Arthur with a meaning 
which escaped her. 

“ No, six months is the period,” she corrected seriously. 

“ In wedding finery she will prance before her delighted 
friends for a few minutes, and then march out to shed 
white silk and fleecy tulle. A vengeful nun, whose hair 


336 


has long been worn away, will then clip with one snip of 
the scissors her brown locks from her head. . . .” 

“ Horror ! ” cried Arthur. 

“ Sure, straight across the neck, you know, like the 
women’s-rights people. Then the murder of the hair has 
to be concealed, so they put on a nightcap, and hide that 
with a veil, and then bring her into the bishop to tell 
him it’s all right, and that she’s satisfied.” 

“ And what do they make of the hair f ” said Arthur. 

“ That’s one of the things yet to be revealed.” 

“ And after that she is set at chasing the rule, or being 
chased by the rule for two years. She studies striking ex- 
amples of observing the rule, and of the contrary. She 
has a shy at observing it herself, and the contrary. The 
rule is it when she observes it ; she’s it when she doesn’t. 
At this point the mother superior comes into the game.” 

“ Where do the frowsy children come in ? ” 

“At meals usually. Honora cuts the bread and her 
fingers, butters it, and passes it round ; the frowsy butter 
themselves, and Honora ; this is an act of mortification, 
which is intensified when the mistress of novices discovers 
the butter on her habit.” 

“ Finally the last stage is worse than the first, I suppose. 
Having acquired the habit she gets into it so deeply. . .” 

“ She sheds it once more, Arthur. Then she’s tied to 
the frowsy children forever, and is known as Sister Mary 
of the Cold Shoulder to the world.” 

“ This is a case of rescue,” said Arthur with determina- 
tion, “ I move we rescue her this minute. Help, help ! ” 

The woods echoed with his mocking cries. Honora had 
not spoken, the smile had died away, and she was plainly 
offended. Louis observant passed a hint to Arthur, who 
made the apology. 

“ We shall be there,” he said humbly, “ with our hearts 
bleeding because we must surrender you. And who are 
we that you need care ? It is poor Ireland that will mourn 
for the child that bathed and bound her wounds, that 
watched by her in the dark night, and kept the lamp of 
hope and comfort burning, that stirred hearts to pity and 
service, that woke up Lord Constantine and me, and 
strangers and enemies like us, to render service ; the 
child whose face and voice and word and song made the 
meanest listen to a story of injustice ; all shut out, con- 


337 


cealed, pat away where the mother may never see or hear 
her more.” 

His voice broke, his eyes filled with tears at the vividness 
of the vision called np in the heart of the woods ; and 
he walked ahead to conceal his emotion. Honora stopped 
dead and looked inquiringly at the Deacon, who switched 
the flowers with downcast eyes. 

“ What is the meaning of it, Louis ?” 

He knew not how to make answer, thinking that Arthur 
should be the first to tell his story. 

“ Do you think that we can let you go easily ? ”he said. 
“ If we tease you as we did just now it is to hide what we 
really suffer. His feeling got the better of him, I think.” 

The explanation sounded harmless. For an instant a 
horrid fear that these woods must witness another scene 
like Lord Constantine’s chilled her heart. She comforted 
Arthur like a sister. 

“ Do not feel my going too deeply. Change must come. 
Let us be glad it is not death, or a journey into distant 
lands with no return. I shall be among you still, and 
meanwhile God will surely comfort you.” 

“ Oh, if we could walk straight on like this,” Arthur 
answered, “ through the blessed, free, scented forest, just 
as we are, forever ! And walking on for years, content 
with one another, you, Louis, and I, come out at last, as 
we shall soon come out here on the lake, on the shore of 
eternity, just as life’s sun sets, and the moon of the im- 
mortal life rises ; and then without change, or the anguish 
of separation and dying, if we could pass over the waters, 
and enter the land of eternity, taking our place with God 
and His children, our friends, that have been there so 
long ! ” 

“ Is not that just what we are to do, not after your 
fashion, but after the will of God, Arthur ? Louis at the 
altar, I in the convent before the altar, and you in the 
field of battle fighting for us both. Aaron, Miriam, 
Moses, here are the three in the woods of Champlain, as 
once in the desert of Arabia,” and she smiled at the young 
men. 

Louis returned the smile, and Arthur gave her a look of 
adoration, so tender, so bold, that she trembled. The 
next moment, when the broad space through which they 
were walking ended in a berry-patch, he plunged among 


338 


the bushes with eagerness, to gather for her black rasp- 
berries in his drinking-cup. Her attempt to discuss her 
departure amiably had failed. 

“ I am tired already,” said she to Louis helplessly. “ I 
shall go back to the house, and leave you to go on to- 
gether. ” 

“ Don’t blame him,” the Deacon pleaded, perceiving 
how useless was concealment. f ‘ If you knew how that 
man has suffered in his life, and how you opened heaven 
to him . . she made a gesture of pain . . . “ remember 
all his goodness and be gentle with him. He must speak 
before you go. He will take anything from you, and you 
alone can teach him patience and submission.” 

“ How long . . .” she began. He divined what she 
would have asked. 

“ Mona has known it more than a year, but no one else, 
for he gave no sign. I know it only a short time. After 
all it is not to be wondered at. He has been near you, 
working with you for years. His life has been lonely 
somehow, and you seemed to fill it. Do not be hasty with 
him. Let him come to his avowal and his refusal in his 
own way. It is all you can do for him. Knowing you 
so well he probably knows what he has to receive.” 

Arthur came back with his berries and poured them out 
on a leaf for her to eat. Seated for a little on a rock, 
while he lay on the ground at her feet, she ate to please 
him ; but her soul in terror saw only the white face of 
Lord Constantine, and thought only of the pain in store 
for this most faithful friend. Oh, to have it out with him 
that moment ! Yet it seemed too cruel. But how go on 
for a month in dread of what was to come ? 

She loved him in her own beautiful way. Her tears fell 
that night as she sat in her room by the window watching 
the high moon, deep crimson, rising through the mist over 
the far-off islands. How bitter to leave her beloved even 
for God, when the leaving brought woe to them ! So 
long she had waited for the hour of freedom, and always 
a tangle at the supreme moment ! How could she be 
happy and he suffering without the convent gates ? This 
pity was to be the last temptation, her greatest trial. Its 
great strength did not disarm her. If twenty broke their 
hearts on that day, she would not give up her loved design. 
Let God comfort them, since she could not. But the 


339 


vision of a peaceful entrance into the convent faded 
She would have to enter, as she had passed through life, 
carrying the burden of another’s woe, in tears. 

She could see that he never lost heart. The days passed 
delightfully, and somehow his adoration pleased her. 
Having known him in many lights, there was novelty in 
seeing him illumined by candid love. How could he keep 
so high a courage with the end so dark and so near ? 
Iionora had no experience of love, romantic love, and she 
had always smiled at its expression in the novels of the 
time. If Arthur only knew the task he had set for him- 
self ! She loved him truly, but marriage repelled her 
almost, except in others. 

Therefore, having endured the uncertainty of the posi- 
tion a week, she had it out with Arthur. Sitting on the 
rocks of an ancient quarry, high above the surface of the 
lake, they watched the waters rough and white from the 
strong south wind. The household had adjourned that 
day for lunch to this wild spot, and the members were 
scattered about, leaving them, as they always did now, by 
common consent alone. 

“ Perhaps,” she said calmly, “ this would be a good 
time to talk to you, Arthur, as sister to brother . . . can’t 
we talk as brother and sister ? ” 

For a change came over his face that sickened her. The 
next moment he was ready for the struggle. 

“I fear not, Honora,” said he humbly. “ I fear we can 
never do that again.” 

“Then you are to stand in my way too ?” with bitter- 
ness. 

“ No, but lam not going to stand in my own way,” he 
replied boldly. “ Have I ever stood in your way, 
Honora ? ” 

“ You have always helped me. Do not fail me at the 
last, I beg of you.” 

“ I shall never fail you, nor stand in your way. You 
are free now as your father wished you to be. You shall 
go to the convent on the date which you have named. 
Neither Ireland, nor anything but your heart shall hinder 
you. You have seen my heart for a week as you never 
saw it before. Do not let what you saw disturb or detain 
you. I told your father of it the last day of his life, and 
he was glad. He said it was like ... he was satisfied. 


340 


Both he and I were of one mind that you should be free. 
And you are.” 

Ideas and words fled from her. The situation of her 
own making she knew not how to manage. What could 
be more sensible than his speech ? 

“ Very well, thank you,” she said helplessly. 

He had perfect control of himself, but his attitude ex- 
pressed his uneasiness, his face only just concealed his 
pain. All his life, in moments like this, Arthur Dillon 
would suffer from his earliest sorrow. 

“ I hope you will all let me go with resignation,” she 
began again. 

“ I give you to God freely,” was his astonishing answer, 
“ but I may tell you it is my hope He will give you back 
to me. I have nothing, and He is the Lord of all. He 
has permitted my heart to be turned to ashes, and yet gave 
it life again through you. I have confidence in Him. 
To you I am nothing ; in the future I shall be only a 
memory to be prayed for. If we had not God to lift us 
up, and repay us for our suffering, to what would we 
come ? I could not make my heart clear to you, show you 
its depths of feeling, frightful depths, I think sometimes, 
and secure your pity. God alone, the master of hearts, 
can do that. I have been generous to the last farthing. 
He will not be outdone by me.” 

“ Oh, my God!” she murmured, looking at him in 
wonder, for his words sounded insanely to her ear. 

“ I love you, Honora,” he went on, with a flush on his 
cheek, and so humble that he kept his eyes on the ground. 
“ Go, in spite of that, if God demands it. If you can, 
knowing that I shall be alone, how much alone no one may 
know, go nevertheless. Only bear it in mind, that 1 shall 
wait for you outside the convent gate. If you cannot re- 
main thinking of me, I shall be ready for you. If not 
here, then hereafter, as God wills. But you are free, and 
I love you. Before you go, God’s beloved,” and he looked 
at her then with eyes so beautiful that her heart went out 
to him, “you must let me tell you what I have been. You 
will pray for me better, when you have learned how far a 
man can sink into hell, and yet by God’s grace reach 
heaven again.” 


341 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A TALE WELL TOLD. 

Arthur was gayer than ever before, with the gaiety of 
his nature, not of the part which he had played. Honora 
knew how deeply she loved him, from her very dread of 
inflicting on him that pain which was bound to come. 
The convent would be her rich possession; but he who 
had given her and her father all that man could give, he 
would have only bitter remembrance. How bitter that 
could be experience with her father informed her. The 
mystery of his life attracted her. If not Arthur Dillon, 
who was he ? What tragedy had driven him from one life 
into another? Did it explain that suffering so clearly 
marked on his face ? To which she must add, as part of 
the return to be made for all his goodness ! 

Arthur’s love for her had the fibre of tragedy. She felt 
rather than knew its nature. For years it had been grow- 
ing in his strong heart, disciplined by' steady buffeting, 
by her indifference, by his own hard circumstances; no 
passion of an hour like Romeo’s, more like her father’s 
love for Erin. 

Her fixed resolve to depart for her convent kept the 
process from tangle. Sweet indeed was the thought of 
how nobly he loved her. She was free. God alone was 
the arbiter. None could hinder her going, if her heart 
did not bid her stay for his sake. Her father had needed 
her. Perhaps this poor soul needed her more. 

Her pity for him grew, and prompted deeper tenderness ; 
and how could she know, who had been without experience, 
that pity is often akin to love ? 

The heavenly days flew by like swift swallows. Septem- 
ber came with its splendid warnings of change. The 


342 


trees were suddenly bordered in gold yellow and dotted 
with fire-red. The nights began to be haunted by cool 
winds. Louis packed his trunk early in the month. His 
long vacations had ended, ordination was at hand, and his 
life-work would begin in the month of October. 

The household went down to the city for the grand 
ceremony. Mona and her baby remained in the city then, 
while the others returned to the lake for a final week, 
Anne with perfect content, Honora in calmness of spirit, 
but also in dread for Arthur’s sake. He seemed to have 
no misgivings. Her determination continued, and the situ- 
ation therefore remained as clear as the cold September 
mornings. Yet some tie bound them, elusive, beyond 
description, but so much in evidence that every incident 
of the waiting time seemed to strengthen it. Delay did 
not abate her resolution, but it favored his hope. 

“ Were you disturbed by the revelations of Mrs. Cur- 
ran ?” he said as they sat, for the last time indeed, on the 
terrace so fatal to Lord Constantine. Anne read the 
morning newspaper in the shadow of the grove behind 
them, with Judy to comment on the news. The day, 
perfect, comfortable, without the perfume of August, 
sparkled with the snap of September. 

“ My curiosity was disturbed,” she admitted frankly, 
and her heart beat, for the terrible hour had come. “ I 
felt that your life had some sadness and mystery in it, but 
it was a surprise to hear that you were not Anne Dillon’s 
long-lost son.” 

“ That was pure guess-work on Colette’s part, you know. 
She’s a born devil, if there are such things "among ns 
humans. I’ll tell you about her some time. Then the 
fact of my wife’s existence did not disturb you at all ? ” 

“ On the contrary, it soothed me, I think,” she said with 
a blush. 

“ I know why. Well, it will take my story to explain 
hers. She told the truth in part, poor Colette. Once 
I had a wife, before I became Anne Dillon’s son. Will it 
be too painful for you to hear the story ? It is mourn- 
ful. To no one have I ever told it complete ; in fact I 
could not, only to you. How I have burned to tell it 
from beginning to end to the true heart. I could not 
shock Louis, the dear innocent, and it was necessary to 
keep most of it from my mother, for legal reasons. Mon- 


343 


signor has heard the greater part, but not all. And I 
have been like the Ancient Mariner. 

Since then at an uncertain hour 
That agony returns ; 

And till my ghastly tale is told, 

The heart within me burns. 

* * * * 


That moment that his face I see 
I know the man that must hear me ; 

To him my tale I teach. 

“ I am the man,’* said she, “ with a woman's curiosity. 
How can I help but listen ? '' 


He holds him with his glittering eye — 

The wedding-guest stood still, 

And listens like a three years’ child : 

The mariner hath his will. 

The wedding-guest sat on a stone, 

He cannot choose but hear ; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 

That bright-eyed mariner. 

“ Do you remember how we read and re-read it on the Ar- 
row years ago ? Somehow it has rung in my ears ever since, 
Honora. Sly life had a horror like it. Had it not passed 
I could not speak of it even to you. Long ago I was an 
innocent fool whom men knew in the neighborhood of 
Cambridge as Horace Endicott. I was an orphan, with- 
out guides, or real friends. I felt no need of them, for 
was I not rich, and happily married ? Good nature and 
luck had carried me along lazily like that pine-stick 
floating down there. What a banging it would get on 
this rocky shore if a good south wind sprang up. For 
a long time I escaped the winds. When they came. . . . 
I'll tell you who I was and what she was. Do you re- 
member on the Arrow Captain Curran's story of Tom 
Jones ? " 

He looked up at her interested face, and saw the violet 
eyes widen with sudden horror, 

2 3 


344 


“ I remember,” she cried with astonishment and pain. 
“ Yon, Arthur, you the victim of that shameful story ? ” 
“ Do you remember what you said then, Honora, when 
Curran declared he would one day find Tom Jones ? ” 

She knew by the softness of his speech that her saying 
had penetrated the lad’s heart, and had been treasured till 
this day, would be treasured forever. 

“ And you were sitting there, in the cabin, not ten feet 
off, listening to him and me ? ” she said with a gasp of 
pleasure. 

“ ‘ You will never find him, Captain Curran . . . that 
fearful woman shattered his very soul ... I know the 
sort of man he was ... he will never go back ... if he 
can bear to live, it will be because in his obscurity God 
gave him new faith and hope in human nature, and in the 
woman’s part of it.’ Those are your words, Honora.” 

She blushed with pleasure and murmured: “ I hope 
they came true ! ” 

“ They were true at that moment,” he said reflectively. 
“ Oh, indeed God guided me, placed me in the hands of 
Monsignor, of my mother, of such people as Judy and the 
Senator and Louis, and of you all.” 

“Oh, my God, what suffering!” she exclaimed sud- 
denly as her tears began to fall. “ Louis told me, I saw it 
in your face as every one did, but now I know. And we 
never gave you the pity you needed ! ” 

“Then you must give it to me now,” said he with bold- 
ness. “ But don’t waste any pity on Endicott. He is 
dead, and I look at him across these five years as at a 
stranger. Suffer ? The poor devil went mad with suffer- 
ing. He raved for days in the wilderness, after he dis- 
covered his shame, dreaming dreams of murder for the 

guilty, of suicide for himself ” 

She clasped her hands in anguish and turned toward 
him as if to protect him. 

“It was a good woman who saved him, and she was an 
old mother who had tasted death. Some day I shall show 
you the pool where this old woman found him, after he 
had overcome the temptation to die. She took him to her 
home and her heart, nourished him, gave him courage, 
sent him on a new mission of life. What a life ! He had 
a scheme of vengeance, and to execute it he had to return 
to the old scenes, where he was more alone 


345 


Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 

And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

***** 

O wedding-guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea ; 

So lonely ’twas that God Himself 
Scarce seemed there to be.” 

The wonder to Honora, as he described himself, was 
the indifference of his tone. It had no more than the 
sympathy one might show toward a stranger whose suffer- 
ing had been succeeded by great joy. 

“ Oh, God grant,” he broke in with vehemence, “that 
no soul suffers as did this Endicott, poor wretch, during 
the time of his vengeance. Honora, I would not inflict 
on that terrible woman the suffering of that man for a 
year after his discovery of her sin. I doubted long the 
mercy of God. Bather I knew nothing about His mercy. 
I had no religion, no understanding of it, except in a 
vague, unpractical way. You know now that I am of the 
Puritan race . . . Livingstone is of my family . . . the 
race which dislikes the Irish and the Catholic as the Eng- 
lish dislike them . . . the race that persecuted yours ! 
But you cannot say that I have not atoned for them as 
nearly as one man can ? ” 

Trembling with emotion, she simply raised her hands in 
a gesture that said a thousand things too beautiful for 
words. 

“ My vengeance on the guilty was to disappear. I took 
with me all my property, and I left Messalina with her 
own small dower to enjoy her freedom in poverty. She 
sought for me, hired that detective and others to hound 
me to my hiding-place, and so far has failed to make sure 
of me. "But to have you understand the story clearly, I 
shall stick to the order of events. I had known Monsig- 
nor a few days before calamity overtook me, and to him I 
turned for aid. It was he who found a mother for me, a 
place among ‘ the mere Irish/ a career which has turned 
out very well. You know how Anne Dillon lost her son. 
What no one knows is this : three months before she was 
asked to take part in the scheme of disappearance she sent 


346 


a thousand photographs of her dead husband and her lost 
son to the police of California, and offered a reward for his 
discovery living or dead. Monsignor helped her to that. 
I acknowledged that advertisement from one of the most 
obscure and ephemeral of the mining-camps, and came 
home as her son.” 

“ And the real Arthur Dillon ? He was never found ?” 

“ Oh, yes, he answered it too, indirectly. While I was 
loitering riotously about, awaiting the proper moment to 
make myself known, I heard that one Arthur Dillon was 
dying in another inining-camp some thirty miles to the 
north of us. He claimed to be the real thing, but he was 
dying of consumption, and was too feeble, and of too little 
consequence, to be taken notice of. I looked after him 
till he died, and made sure of his identity. He was Anne 
Dillon’s son and he lies in the family lot in Calvary beside 
his father. No one knows this but his mother, Monsig- 
nor, and ourselves. Colette stumbled on the fact in her 
search of California, but the fates have been against that 
clever woman.” 

He laughed heartily at the complete overthrow of the 
escaped nun. Honora looked at him in astonishment. 
Arthur Dillon laughed, quite forgetful of the tragedy of 
Horace Endicott. 

“ Since my return you know what I have been, Honora. 
I can appeal to you as did Augustus to his friends on his 
dying-bed : have I not played well the part ? ” 

“ I am lost in wonder,” she said. 

i( Then give me your applause as I depart,” he answered 
sadly, and her eyes fell before his eloquent glance. “ In 
thos*e early days rage and hate, and the maddest desire for 
justice, sustained me. That woman had only one wish in 
life : to find, rob, and murder the man who had befooled 
her worse than she had tricked him. I made war on that 
man. I hated Horace Endicott as a weak fool. He had 
fallen lowest of all his honest, able, stern race. I beat him 
first into hiding, then into slavery, and at last into anni- 
hilation. I studied to annihilate him, and I did it by rais- 
ing Arthur Dillon in his place. I am now Arthur Dillon. 
I think, feel, act, speak, dream like that Arthur Dillon 
which I first imagined. When you knew me first, Honora, 
I was playing a part. I am no longer acting. I am the 
xnan whom the world knows as Arthur Dillon.” 


347 


“ I can see that, and it seems more wonderful than any 
dream of romance. You a Puritan are more Irish than 
the Irish, more Catholic than the Catholics, more Dillon 
than the Dillons. Oh, how can this be ?” 

“ Don’t let it worry you,” be said grimly. “ Just 
accept the fact and me. I never lived until Horace 
Endicott disappeared. He was a child of fortune and a 
lover of ease and pleasure. His greatest pain had been a 
toothache. His view of life had been a boy’s. When I 
stepped on this great stage I found myself for the first 
time in the very current of life. Suffering ate my heart 
out, and I plunged into that current to deaden the agony. 
I found myself by accident a leader of a poor people who 
had fled from injustice at home to suffer a mean persecu- 
tion here. I was thrown in with the great men of the 
hour, and found a splendid opponent in a member of the 
Endicott family, Livingstone. I saw the very heart of 
great things, and the look enchanted me. 

“ You know how I worked for my friends, for your 
father, for the people, for every one and everything that 
needed help. For the first time I saw into the heart of a 
true friend. Monsignor helped me, carried me through, 
stood by me, directed me. For the first time I saw into 
the heart of innocence and sanctity, deep down, the heart 
of that blessed boy, Louis. For the first time I looked 
into the heart of a patriot, and learned of the love which 
can endure, not merely failure, but absolute and final 
disappointment, and still be faithful. I became an orator, 
an adventurer, an enthusiast. The Endicott who could 
not speak ten words before a crowd, the empty-headed 
stroller who classed patriots with pickles, became what 
you know me to be. I learned what love is, the love of 
one’s own ; of mother, and friend, and clan. Let me not 
boast, but I learned to know God and perhaps to love Him, 
at least since I am resigned to His will. But I am talking 
too much, since it is for the last time.” 

“ You have not ended,” said she beseechingly. 

“ It would take a lifetime,” and he looked to see if she 
would give him that time, but her eyes watched the lake. 
“ The latest events in my history took place this summer, 
and you had a little share in them. By guess-work 
Colette arrived at the belief that I am Horace Endicott, and 
she set her detective-husband to discover the link between 


348 


Endicott and Dillon. I helped him, because I was curious 
to see how Arthur Dillon would stand the test of direct 
pursuit. They could discover nothing. As fast as a 
trace of me showed it vanished into thin air. There was 
nothing to do but invent a suit which would bring my 
mother, Monsignor, and myself into court, and have us 
declare under oath who is Arthur Dillon. I blocked that 
game perfectly. Messalina has her divorce from Horace 
Endicott, and is married to her lover. There will be no 
further search for the man who disappeared. And I am 
free, Monsignor declares. No ties bind me to that shameful 
past. I have had my vengeance without publicity or 
shame to any one. I have punished as I had the right to 
punish. I have a noble place in life, which no one can 
take from me.” 

“ And did you meet her since you left her . . . that 
woman ? ” Honora said in a low voice half ashamed of the 
question. 

“ At Castle Moyna . . he began and stopped dead at 
a sudden recollection. 

“ I met her,” cried Honora with a stifled scream, “I 
met her.” 

“ I met her again on the steamer returning,” he said 
after a pause. “ She did not recognize me, nor has she 
ever. We met for the last time in July. At that meeting 
Arthur Dillon pronounced sentence on her in the name of 
Horace Endicott. She will never wish to see me or her 
lost husband again,” 

“ Oh, how you must have suffered, Arthur, how you 
must have suffered ! 99 

She had grown pale alarmingly, but he did not perceive 
it. The critical moment had come for him, and he was 
praying silently against the expected blow. Her resolution 
had left her, and the road had vanished in the obscurity of 
night. She no longer saw her way clear. Her nerves had 
been shaken by this wonderful story, and the surges of 
feeling that rose before it like waves before the wind. 

“ And I must suffer still,” he went on half to himself. 
“ I was sure that God would give me that which I most 
desired, because I had given Him all that belonged to me. 
I kept back nothing except as Monsignor ordered. 
Through you, Honora, my faith in woman came back, as 
you said it would when you answered the detective in my 


349 


behalf. When Monsignor told me I was free, that I could 
speak to you as an honorable man, I took it as a sign from 
heaven that the greatest of God’s gifts was for me. I love 
you so, Honora, that your wish is my only happiness. 
Since you must go, if it is the will of God, do not mind my 
suffering, which is also His will . . 

He arose from his place and his knees were shaking. 

“ There is consolation for us all somewhere. Mine is 
not to be here. The road to heaven is sometimes long. 
Not here, Honora ? ” 

The hope in him was not yet dead. She rose too and 
put her arms about him, drawing his head to her bosom 
with sudden and overpowering affection. 

“ Here and hereafter,” she whispered, as they sat down 
on the bench again. 

******* 

“ Judy,” said Anne in the shade of the trees, “ is Arthur 
hugging Honora, or . . .” 

“ Glory be,” whispered Judy with tears streaming down 
her face, “ it’s Honora that’s hugging Arthur . . . no, 
it’s both o’ them at wanst, thanks be to God.” 

And the two old ladies stole away home through the 
happy woods. 


350 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THREE SCENES. 

Anne might have been the bitterest critic of Honora 
for her descent from the higher to the lesser life, but she 
loved the girl too well even to look displeasure. Having 
come to believe that Arthur would be hers alone forever, 
she regarded Honora’s decision as a mistake. The whole 
world rejoiced at the union of these ideal creatures, even 
Sister Magdalen, from whom Arthur had snatched a prize. 
Honora was her own severest critic. How she had let 
herself go in pity for a sufferer to whom her people, her 
faith, her father, her friends, and herself owed much, 
she knew not. His explanation was simple : God gave you 
to me. 

The process of surrender really began at Louis’ ordina- 
tion. Arthur watched his boy, the center of the august 
ceremony, with wet eyes. This innocent heart, with its 
solemn aspirations, its spiritual beauty, had always been 
for him a wonder and a delight ; and it seemed fitting that 
a life so mysteriously beautiful should end its novitiate 
and begin its career with a ceremony so touching. The 
September sun streamed through the venerable windows 
of the cathedral, the music soared among the arches, the 
altar glowed with lights and flowers ; the venerable arch- 
bishop and his priests and attendants filled the sanctuary, 
an adoring crowd breathed with reverence in the nave ; 
but the center of the scene, its heart of beauty, was the 
pale, sanctified son of Mary Everard. 

For him were all these glories ! Happy, happy, youth ! 
Blessed mother ! There were no two like them in the 
whole world, he said in his emotion. Her glorified face 
often shone on him in the pauses of the ceremony. Her 
look repeated the words she had uttered the night before : 

Under God my happiness is owing to you, Arthur Dillon : 
like the happiness of so many others ; and that I am not 
to-day dead of sorrow and grief is also owing to you ; now 


351 


may God grant you the dearest wish of your heart, as 
He has granted mine this day through you ; for there is 
nothing too good for a man with a heart and a hand like 
yours. ” 

How his heart had like to hurst under that blessing ! 
He thought of Honora, not yet his own. 

The entire Irishry was present, with their friends of 
every race. In deference to his faithful adherent, the 
great Livingstone sat in the very front pew, seriously at- 
tentive to the rite, and studious of its significance. 
Around him were grouped the well-beloved of Arthur Dil- 
lon, the souls knit to his with the strength of heaven ; the 
Senator, high-colored, richly-dressed, resplendent, sin- 
cere ; the Boss, dark and taciturn, keen, full of emotion, 
sighing from the depths of his rich nature over the mean- 
ing of life, as it leaped into the light of this scene ; 
Birmingham, impressive and dignified, rejoicing at the 
splendor so powerful with the world that reckons every- 
thing by the outward show ; and all the friends of the 
new life, to whom this ceremony was dear as the breath 
of their bodies. For this people the sanctuary signified 
the highest honor, the noblest service, the loftiest glory. 
Beside it the honors of the secular life, no matter how es- 
teemed, looked like dead flowers. 

At times his emotion seemed to slip from the rein, 
threatening to unman him. This child, whose innocent 
hands were anointed with the Holy Oil, who was bound 
and led away, who read the mass with the bishop and re- 
ceived the Sacred Elements with him, upon whom the 
prelate breathed solemn powers, who lay prostrate on the 
floor, whose head was blessed by the hands of the assembled 
priests : this child God had given him to replace the in- 
nocent so cruelly destroyed long ago ! 

Honora’s eyes hardly left Arthur’s transfigured face, 
which held her, charmed her, frightened her by its ever- 
changing expression. Light and shadow flew across it as 
over the depths of the sea. The mask off, the habit of 
repression laid aside, his severe features responded to the 
inner emotions. She saw his great eyes fill with tears, 
his breast heave at times. As yet she had not heard his 
story. The power of that story came less from the tale 
than the recollection of scenes like this, which she un- 
thinking had witnessed in the years of their companion- 


352 


ship. What made this strange man so unlike all other 
men ? 

At the close of the ordination the blessing from the 
new priest began. Flushed, dewy-eyed, calm, and white, 
Louis stood at the railing to lay his anointed hands on 
each in turn ; first the mother, and the father. Then 
came a little pause, while Mona made way for him, dearest 
to all hearts that day, Arthur. He held back until he 
saw that his delay retarded the ceremony, when he accep- 
ted the honor. He felt the blessed hands on his head, 
and a thrill leaped through him as the palms, odorous of 
the balmy chrism, touched his lips. 

Mona held up her baby with the secret prayer that he 
too would be found worthy of the sanctuary ; then 
followed her husband and her sisters. Honora did not see as 
she knelt how Arthur’s heart leaped into his eyes, and 
shot a burning glance at Louis to remind him of a request 
uttered long ago : when you bless Honora, bless her for 
me ! Thus all conspired against her. Was it wonderful 
that she left the cathedral drawn to her hero as never 
before ? 

The next day Arthur told her with pride and tender- 
ness, as they drove to the church where Father Louis 
was to sing his first Mass, that every vestment of the 
young priest came from him. Sister Magdalen had made 
the entire set, with her own hands embroidered them, and 
he had borne the expense. Honora found her heart 
melting under these beautiful details of an affection 
without limit. The depth of this man’s heart seemed in- 
credible, deeper than her father’s, as if more savage sor- 
row had dug depths in what was deep enough by nature. 
Long afterward she recognized how deeply the ordination 
had affected her. It roused the feeling that such a heart 
should not be lightly rejected. 

* * * * * * 

Desolation seized her, as the vision of the convent 
vanished like some lovely vale which one leaves forever. 
Very simply he banished the desolation. 

“1 have been computing,” he said, as they sat on the 
veranda after breakfast, “what you might have been 
worth to the Church as a nun . . . hear me, hear me 


353 


. . . wait for the end of the story ... it is charming. 
Yon are now about twenty-seven, I won’t venture any 
nearer your age. I don’t know my mother’s age.” 

“And no man will ever know it,” said Anne. “Men 
have no discretion about ages.” 

“Let me suppose,” Arthur continued, “that fifty years 
of service would be the limit of your active life. You 
would then be seventy-seven, and there is no woman alive 
as old as that. The oldest is under sixty.”' 

“ Unless the newspapers want to say that she’s a hun- 
dred,” said Anne slyly. 

“ For the sake of notoriety she is willing to have the 
truth told about her age.” 

“ As a school-teacher, a music-teacher, or a nurse, let 
me say that your services might be valued at one thou- 
sand a year for the fifty years, Honora. Do you think 
that a fair average ? ” 

“Very fair,” said she indifferently. 

“Well, I am going to give that sum to the convent for 
having deprived them of your pleasant company,” said he. 
“ Hear me, hear me, . . . I’m not done yet. I must be 
generous, and I know your conscience will be tender a 
long time, if something is not done to toughen it. I 
want to be married in the new cathedral, which another 
year will see dedicated. But a good round sum would 
advance the date. We owe much to Monsignor. In your 
name and mine I am going to give him enough to put the 
great church in the way to be dedicated by November.” 

He knew the suffering which burned her heart that morn- 
ing, himself past master in the art of sorrow. That she 
had come down from the heights to the common level 
would be her grief forever ; thus to console her would 
be his everlasting joy. 

“ What do you think of it ? Isn’t it a fair release ? ” 

“ Only I am not worth it,” she said. “ But so much 
the better, if every one gains more than I lose by my . . . 
infatuation.” 

“ Are you as much in love as that ? ” said Anne with 
malice. 

They were married with becoming splendor in January. 
A quiet ceremony suggested by Honora had been promptly 
overruled by Anne Dillon, who saw in this wedding a 
social opportunity beyond any of her previous triumphs. 


354 


Mrs. Dillon was not your mere aristocrat, who keeps ex- 
clusive her ceremonious march through life. At that 
early date she had perceived the usefulness to the aristo- 
cracy of the press, of general popularity, and of mixed 
assemblies ; things freely and openly sought for by so- 
ciety to-day. Therefore the great cathedral of the west- 
ern continent never witnessed a more splendid ceremony 
than the wedding of Honora and Arthur ; and no event 
in the career of Anne Dillon bore stronger testimony to 
her genius. 

The Chief Justice of the nation headed the elite, among 
whom shone like a constellation the Countess of Skibbe- 
reen ; the Senator brought in the whole political circle of 
the city and the state ; Grahame marshaled the journalists 
and the conspirators against the peace of England; the 
profession of music came forward to honor the bride ; the 
common people of Cherry Hill went to cheer their hero ; 
Monsignor drew to the sanctuary the clerics of rank to 
honor the benefactor of the cathedral ; and high above all, 
enthroned in beauty, the Cardinal of that year presided 
as the dispenser of the Sacrament. 

As at the ordination of Louis the admirable Livingstone 
sat among the attendant princes. For the third time within 
a few months had he been witness to the splendors of 
Rome now budding on the American landscape. He did 
not know what share this Arthur Dillon had in the life of 
Louis and in the building of the beautiful temple. But 
he knew the strength of his leadership among his people ; 
and he felt curious to see with his own eyes, to feel with 
his own heart, the charm, the enchantment, which had 
worked a spell so fatal on the richly endowed Endicott 
nature. 

For enchantment there must have been. The treachery 
and unworthiness of Sonia, detestable beyond thought, 
could not alone work so strange and weird a transformation. 
Half cynic always, and still more cynical since his late 
misfortunes, he could not withhold his approbation from 
the cleverness which grouped about this young man and 
his bride the great ones of the hour. The scene wholly 
depressed him. Not the grandeur, nor the presence of the 
powers of society, but the sight of this Endicott, of the 
mould of heroes, of the blood of the English Puritan, 
acting as sponsor of a new order of things in his beloved 


355 


country, the order which he had hoped, still hoped, to 
destroy. His heart bled as he watched him. 

The lovely mother, the high-hearted father, lay in their 
grave. Here stood their beloved, a prince among men, 
bowing before the idols of Borne, receiving for himself and 
his bride the blessing of the archpriest of Romanism, a 
cardinal in his ferocious scarlet. All his courage and 
skill would be forever at the service of the new order. 
Who was to blame ? Was it not the rotten reed which he 
had leaned upon, the woman Sonia, rather than these ? 
True it is, true it always will be, that a man’s enemies are 
they of his own household. 

* * * * * 

A grand content filled the heart of Arthur. The bit- 

terness of his fight had passed. So long had he struggled 
that fighting had become a part of his dreams, as neces- 
sary as daily bread. He had not laid aside his armor even 
for his marriage. Yet there had been an armistice, quite 
unperceived, from the day of the cathedral’s dedication. 
He had lonely possession of the battle-field. His enemies 
had fled. All was well with his people. They had 
reached and passed the frontier, as it were, on that day 
when the great temple opened its sanctuary to God and 
its portals to the nation. 

The building he regarded as a witness to the daring of 
Monsignor ; for Honora’s sake he had given to it a third of 
his fortune ; the day of the dedication crowned Monsignor’s 
triumph. When he had seen the spectacle, he learned 
how little men have to do with the great things of history. 
God alone makes history ; man is the tide which rushes in 
and out at His command, at the great hours set by Him, 
and knows only the fact, not the reason. In the building 
that day gathered a multitude representing every form of 
human activity and success. They stood for the triumph 
of a whole race, which, starved out of its native seat, had 
clung desperately to the land of Columbia in spite of per- 
secution. 

Soldiers sat in the assembly, witnesses for the dead of 
the southern battle-fields, for all who had given life and 
love, who had sacrificed their dearest, to the new land in 
its hour of calamity. Men rich in the honors of commerce, 
of the professions, of the schools, artists, journalists, 
leaders, bore witness to the native power of a people, who 


356 


had been written down in the books of the hour as idle, 
inferior, incapable by their very nature. In the sanctuary 
sat priest and prelate, a brilliant gathering, surrounding 
the delicate-featured Cardinal, in gleaming red, high on 
his beautiful throne. 

From the organ rolled the wonderful harmonies born of 
faith and genius ; from the pulpit came in sonorous English 
the interpretation of the scene as a gifted mind perceived 
it ; about the altar the ancient ritual enacted the holy 
drama, whose sublime enchantment holds every age. 
Around rose the towering arches, the steady columns, the 
broad walls, lighted from the storied windows, of the first 
really great temple of the western continent ! 

Whose hands raised it ? Arthur discovered in the an- 
swer the charm which had worked upon dying Ledwith, 
turned his failure into triumph, and his sadness into joy. 
What a witness, an eternal witness, to the energy and 
faith of a poor, simple, despised people, would be this 
temple ! Looking upon its majestic beauty, who could 
doubt their powers, though the books printed English 
slanders in letters of gold ? Out of these great doors 
would march ideas to strengthen and refresh the poor ; 
ideas once rejected, once thought destructible by the air 
of the American wilderness. A conspiracy of centuries 
had been unable to destroy them. Into these great por- 
tals for long years would a whole people march for their 
own sanctification and glory ! 

Thereafter the temple became for him a symbol, as 
for the faithful priest ; the symbol of his own life as 
that of his people. 

He saw it in the early dawn, whiter than the mist 
which broke against it, a great angel whose beautiful feet 
the longing earth had imprisoned ! red with the flush 
of morning, rosy with the tints of sunrise, as if heaven 
were smiling upon it from open gates ! clear, majestic, 
commanding in the broad day, like a leader of the people, 
drawing all eyes to itself, provoking the question, the 
denial, the prayer from every passer, as tributes to its 
power ! in the sunset, as dying Ledwith had seen it, 
flushed with the fever of life, but paling like the day, 
tender, beseeching, appealing to the flying crowd for a 
last turning to God before the day be done forever ! in 
the twilight, calm, restful, submissive to the darkness, 


357 


which had no power over it, because of the Presence 
within ! terrible when night falls and sin goes forth in 
purple and fine linen, a giant which had heaved the earth 
and raised itself from the dead stone to rebuke and 
threaten the erring children of God ! 

He described all this for Honora, and, strangely enough, 
for Livingstone, who never recovered from the spell cast 
over him by this strange man. The old gentleman loved 
his race with the fervor of an ancient clansman. For this 
lost sheep of the house of Endicott he developed in time 
an interest which Arthur foresaw would lead agreeably 
one day to a review of the art of disappearing. He was 
willing to satisfy his curiosity. Meanwhile, airing his 
ideas on the providential mission of the country, and of 
its missionary races, and combatting his exclusiveness, they 
became excellent friends. Livingstone fell deeply in love 
with Honora, as it was the fashion in regard to that 
charming woman. For Arthur the circle of life had its 
beginning in her, and with her would have its end. 


THE END. 


PRINTED BY BLASE BENZIGER & CO., INC., NEW YORK 








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